


The Right Path

by JoansGlove



Series: Slow Dance [9]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Sibling Incest, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23394127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: Where does your moral compass point you? Has it ever got stuck? Who might you become if the poles were ever reversed?
Relationships: Joan Ferguson/Original Female Character(s), Joan Ferguson/Other(s)
Series: Slow Dance [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/680813
Comments: 24
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, with thanks to Duchess

In an exclusive art gallery, on a ticket begged from her boss, Joan stands dwarfed before the enigmatic canvass. Cruciform, the pearl-skinned woman floats on an ocean of liquid night. Her long, languid limbs gleam palely, startling the eye. Unearthly light glimmers in the valley of her navel and across the rise of her breasts, quickening the senses. Her face is a beautiful mask – of the types worn at Carnivale – the space behind the eyes an eternal inky black, pulling you in, drawing you closer until your lips part on the cusp of a kiss. But those red lips aren’t made for kissing, no indeed – for they are stitched shut with bloody thread, sealed against the scream of womanhood.

Easily one of the largest pieces here, it forms part of an exhibition of nudes created by some of the most exciting artists working in Europe at this time. Although this particular artist, Joan knows, originates from the Ivory Coast.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” The man’s heavily accented question jars Joan from her reverie.

She turns and looks down into the dapper grey-haired man’s wrinkled face expecting the conversation to turn grubby at any moment but his twinkling brown eyes give no suggestion that he’s already mentally undressed her, and she bobs her head in affirmation. “Yes. Well spotted.” 

Obviously pleased with himself, he preens a little. With a flamboyant flick of his wrist he pats his hair with beringed fingers and asks, “You sat for her in Brussels?”

“Briefly. It was a few years ago now.” Her expression grows wistful and she smiles it away.

“If I may ask, what were you doing in Belgium? Brussels is hardly a raging hotspot for young people.”

She chuckles softly in agreement. “Good for study, though. I attended a couple of semesters at the University,” she explains.

“You should sit for her again, you know.”

“Maybe, but it’s not likely that I’ll be back in that part of the world any time soon. Once I’ve finished this posting I’m going home and I’m staying there.”

She’d joined the Australian High Commission straight out of university and quickly found herself immersed in the fascinating dance that was the Diplomatic Service, and when the chance to spend a year in Singapore presented itself she’d jumped at it. But it’s been a long year without Maggie here to share it with and she can’t wait to get back to where she belongs.

“Ah, well. A shame but it can’t be helped. Who knows, perhaps we brushed elbows and never knew, although I’m sure I would have remembered if we had.” The man holds out his hand, “Adrian Kato, admirer of beautiful things.”

She shakes his smooth, cool hand, mindful of his rings. “Joan Kireyevova, lowly Civil Servant and erstwhile artist’s model.”

“You’re Russian?”

“The name is, but I’m Australian.”

Kato’s eyes widen with a look of intrigue. “Now that is a very strange coincidence, because just behind us is a group of trade delegates from Australia, and one of them is called Kireyev. Here, let me introduce you.”

A cloud of foreboding gathers above her as Joan foolishly allows herself to be towed across the ultra-chic, ultra-modern art space to a gaggle of men who look like they’d been promised a brothel and instead have found themselves in church. She can feel their drink-bright eyes lapping her up as they assess her fuckability and she stares at them coldly knowing that the high mandarin collar and modest hemline of her plain red dress are no protection from their calculating gaze.

Letting go of her hand, Kato tells her to wait and then insinuates himself into the huddle. She sees him speak to a tall young man with a bad haircut and then gesture towards her, and she steels herself as the man turns to follow his gaze. Despite the likelihood of it being him it’s still a shock to see that it is, indeed, Brian. Taller, broader, heavier but definitely her brother. They have nothing to say to each other and she considers walking off but she’s too proud to give him the satisfaction of (what he would consider) driving her away so she straightens her spine and squares her shoulders as Brian and Kato step away from the group and make their way over.

“Joan, I’d like you to meet Brian Kireyev. Brian, this is Joan Kireyevova. When I heard her surname I had to introduce you two, after all, what are the chances of two Aussies with the same Russian name being here in the same small room in Singapore at the same time eh?”

Cold blue eyes bore straight through her in a fair imitation of a thousand-yard stare. There’s absolutely no trace of recognition in them but she could be looking at her father. Sudden claustrophobia narrows her throat and she forces a polite smile. “Yes,” she hears herself say faintly. “What are the chances? Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she says cautiously and offers her hand.

“Likewise,” comes the neutral reply. His handshake is limper than a rotting stoat and almost as repellent.

“You should talk, perhaps you’ll find that you're related.” It was kindly meant but Joan finds it difficult to return Kato’s smile a second time.

“Oh, I doubt it, I come from a long line of only children,” she replies.

“Yeah, me too.”

Kato shrugs “Oh, well, it was an interesting thought, not to worry. Ah!” he exclaims, spotting someone on the other side of the room. “Would you excuse me, please?” And he slips into the crowd leaving Joan and Brian alone. Joan watches him go with mixed emotions; she knows he meant well but she resents his interference. Given the circumstances of the evening it was inevitable that their paths would have crossed, but without Kato’s meddling they would have likely skated past each other with only the barest flicker of recognition.

Gripping her tightly above the elbow, Brian steers her over to an ugly bronze. “You better keep your mouth shut,” he warns.

“Or what? You think I want people to know we’re related?” She shakes her arm free and pretends to admire the misshapen metal as he glares at her. “Pity’s not my thing, brother dear. Now, how about you just go back to your life and leave me to mine, eh?”

His icy gaze crawls judgmentally up her body and she feels soiled. “I heard what the old man said about that picture.” His eyes flicker to the work then back to Joan. “Slut!” he hisses contemptuously.

She regards the Ichthys on his lapel thoughtfully. “What’s this? Are you a good Christian now, hm? Have you mended your ways, Brian?” She lifts her chin and sneers at him in disdain. He sneers back.

“Are you that desperate for it that you have to advertise?”

She’s already tired of this pointless exchange. “What’s it to you?” she asks loudly, attracting the sideways glances of nearby gallery goers. Conversations falter as the curious turn to stare. “Or is it a case of love the sin but not the sinner? You strike me as the type of man who would have quite a collection of pornography.” He opens his mouth and she raises her index finger to stay his bluster as she continues. “But unlike your magazines, Brian, what you see tonight is art.” Her finger curls against the pad of her thumb but she doesn’t lower her hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have something _much_ better to do elsewhere.”

She’s trembling from the adrenaline rush as she stalks back to Solange's painting for one last, lingering look. She catches Kato’s eye as she passes and shrugs. He shrugs back as if to say ‘well, you can’t win them all’.


	2. Chapter 2

_The woman is still watching her from across the café’s bar. When Joan catches her eye she doesn’t look away, instead she holds Joan's stare with an insouciance that makes Joan first blush, then flush with an erotic warmth. She lowers her eyes to her book as the woman pushes herself away from the great horseshoe of polished walnut and moves purposefully towards her table._

_Shapely legs in leather jeans appear in her peripheral vision and Joan blinks innocently as she looks up from the page and marks her place. The woman stands before her like a black Joan Jett. With her spiky hair, eccentric green eyeliner and punk outfit she has a presence that makes Joan’s skin tingle. Maybe it has something to do with all that leather she thinks absently as she lays her book beside her empty cup and smiles politely._

_“Excusez-moi pour le dérangement, mais_ _voulez-vous me laisser vous dessiner?”_

_She was half-anticipating the offer of another coffee or some such and is surprised by this forthright request. “You want to … draw me?” she translates and her eyes fall to the woman’s hands as if she expects her long fingers to be clutching pen and paper in readiness. “Me.”_

_“Yes, you,” replies the woman in silkily accented English. “May I?” She slides into the seat opposite and waits for her answer._

_It’s an absurd request yet she’s intrigued by this stranger’s easy confidence and is half-tempted to agree, not least because she’s finding her nascent attraction growing stronger by the second. Under the café’s antique lights her glowing skin is of the darkest umber, as flawless and polished as onyx; and Joan's eyes are drawn to her generous mouth and the delicate curve of her chin. Sudden thoughts of kissing those lips arc through her imagination and she shifts her gaze to the woman’s almond eyes, emerald-ringed and heavy lidded and wholly arresting as she watches Joan intently._

_She realises that she hasn’t replied. “When? Not now?”_

_“Yes, why not?”_

_“Well, because I’m afraid I can’t. I’m flattered – no really, I am –” she says quickly as the woman pouts. “But I have a tutorial in ten minutes,” she explains._

_The striking woman shrugs. “Then afterwards, yes?” She leans forward and touches Joan’s wrist, and her dark eyes grow large as they flicker hungrily over Joan's face. “Truly, I cannot let you go unpainted. It would be a crime.” The pale young woman dips her gaze modestly at this grand declaration but she can see the pleasure it’s given her and she knows that she’ll get her model._

_“But won’t it be too dark by then?”_

_“No matter. I can make light enough. Say yes, and afterwards, we shall have dinner.”_

_It’s a very civilised offer from someone who looks so irresistibly anarchic._

_Unless it involves Maggie, she’s always struggled with spontaneity but there’s something about this exotic woman that makes Joan want to be in her presence – in these few brief seconds Joan has found someone that piques her interest. She wants to say yes and feels giddy with sudden excitement as she throws caution to the wind and nods decisively. “OK, then, meet me at four-fifteen at La Chaise Haute in Parc Montgomery.” Glancing at the clock, she gathers up her belongings and stands to leave. The artist’s eyes widen as the young woman’s height is revealed to her and she assesses her lithe body as Joan slips her arms into her heavy overcoat. “Until later, then…” She has the sudden desire for this stranger to persuade her to ditch class but the woman simply smiles up at her and nods so she has no choice but to leave._

_She's halfway to the door before she realises that she doesn’t even know this woman’s name and she executes and about turn, retracing her steps with a sheepish grin. “I’m Joan, by the way. Sorry…”_

_“Solange.” She pulls out her wallet and extracts a business card, taking care to engineer a fleeting brush of their fingers as she hands it to Joan. “Just in case you change your mind,” she says as Joan looks at her enquiringly. “Call me if ever you just want dinner.”_

_Joan can’t keep the silly smile from her face and she’s oblivious to the disappointed men that stop and stare in her wake as she hurries to class, sure that the twist of those lips and the sparkle in those eyes were meant for them. Anticipation flutters in her chest and she pulls Solange’s card from her pocket as she waits for the crossing lights. The hand-made card has a pleasing weight to it and she fingers its raw edges and subtly undulating surface as she reads the woman’s name again._ Solange Amadou _. Her thumb slides across the red inked letters before turning it over and running her eyes over the two numbers: one a pager service, the other a local number handwritten in shimmering gold. She replays the fleeting touch of their fingers and the warmth in Solange’s eye and feels desire quicken in her belly._

_˷_

_She can barely remember anything that happened in the tutorial. They were supposed to be discussing Civil Liberties but all she could think about was Solange. It’s unlike her to lose focus so easily, it’s something she prides herself in; but then, she supposes, she’s never met someone quite like Solange… The strange excitement she feels takes her back to the old days with Nils when she’d revelled in breaking the rules, and although those rules don’t apply to her any more, that fleeting, impulsive handful of minutes had her thoughts drifting like petals on the breeze._

_Her chest hitches in pleasure. Solange is there as promised and she’s doing a little dance to ward off the cold as she waits. The low afternoon sun scores a net of incandescent tracery on Joan's retina as, long fingers spinning silver to gold, it twinkles on the chromed zips and pull tabs of her scuffed biker jacket, and she pauses for a long moment to appreciate the way Solange moves. She looks so dangerously sexy._

_Sneaking up beside her, Joan nudges her elbow. “What’s the tune? Maybe I could join in…” Solange laughs in delight and embraces her, rising on tiptoes to kiss her warmly on her cold cheeks before beckoning Joan to follow._

_The Métro carriages already teem with commuters and straggling schoolkids and, in the warm crush of sober business wear and heavy winter coats, Solange stands out like a sore thumb; but she wears the stares of their fellow passengers with a confidence that reminds Joan of Maggie. But they’re not the only ones who can’t keep their eyes off her. The last time she’d felt like this was when Maggie had come back for her, when they were awkwardly skirting around each other as she planned her new life, neither of them brave enough to voice their attraction until it became impossible to do otherwise._

_Never expecting to find herself in a situation like this, she hadn’t quite believed Maggie when she’d told her to follow her desires in Europe. Yes, they may have taken a third woman into their bed on occasion, but the suggestion that she indulge without Maggie had seemed somehow dishonourable. ‘Now, look,’ Maggie had told her softly as she cradled her in her arms. ‘I know you're not going to throw yourself at the first girl you see but should it happen then I’ll understand. Life’s for living, Joan, and those European women? Well, they’re something else!’ She smiles fondly to herself remembering the slap on the bottom she’d received for asking cheekily, ‘Better than you?’_

_Solange catches Joan's expression and, like a ray of sunshine piercing heavy clouds, she fills with a sense of awe. This girl is amazing; she has so much potential it takes her breath away. The look on her face just now was worth a million Francs, but it’s more than professional interest that’s going on here, and she knows it. Within the space of a few hours, this skinny white girl has managed to make this relationship refugee start feeling again. “What?” she asks with a curious laugh, and Joan swings on the pole, her grin widening as the streak of mischievousness lingers on._

_“How do I know that you’re really an artist?” she teases. “Maybe this is all just a ruse to seduce me…”_

_“Ah, and I might ask how do I know that you're really a student? You could be a spy or an assassin for all I know!” She laughs again as Joan shrugs and smiles mysteriously. “But I don’t care if you’re all three together, the moment I saw you I just knew that I had to draw you.” Her attention is momentarily captured by an explosion of graffiti as the train trundles noisily along a concrete culvert before they’re swallowed by the tunnel once more. “I think you were testing me back at the café,” she tells Joan._

_“Oh yes?” She grins impishly at Solange's profile, “How so?”_

_“Oh, by making me speak English...” She turns to look at Joan again and cocks her head to one side. “What would you have done if I couldn’t?”_

_“Well, I suppose it would have depended on how sincere you were. And how determined. I may have relented… After a while.” Mirth flashes in her dark eyes._

_“So, are you taking me to your studio?”_

_“Oh, lord, no! You’ll be too cold in there. I’m taking you home.” If the truth be told, her studio is beautifully warm, it’s just not designed for entertaining young women. Not that that’s her primary goal, but if it’s going to happen then she’d prefer to love Joan in her big, soft bed instead of on a torn leather sofa that smells of turpentine._

_“Home, eh? Is that wise considering I may yet turn out to be Public Enemy number one?”_

_Solange's expression softens and she moves closer. “Yes, I do. I think that it’s very wise…” Her fingers find Joan’s and she gives them a quick squeeze, delighting in the sudden look of shy excitement that warms the girl’s angular face. Beneath Joan’s starkly serene beauty lies a childlike innocence that speaks to her of the Madonna._

_As they emerge from the warmth of the station, they’re enveloped by the chill scent of winter. The cold has a smell all of its own, cutting through the ever-present exhaust fumes to sharpen the senses. Solange links arms with her and they weave their way along the pavement; and whilst they receive a few odd looks from passers-by, there’s none of the revulsion or anger that she and Maggie usually get when they go out, but she suspects that if it were Maggie by her side now instead of Solange then those looks wouldn’t be odd, they’d be downright hostile._

_They turn down a side street and, after a minute, stop outside a delicatessen and Solange unlocks a silvered door to the side, letting them in to an echoing vestibule. There certainly are a lot of stairs, but she doesn’t mind too much considering the view. She’s in prime position to ogle the roll of Solange’s arse in that tight black leather. Finally, after four flights, they’re on the top landing and Solange ushers her through the sturdy looking door. Glancing around at the high ceilings and period mouldings, Joan expectations are proven wrong. In keeping with Solange’s appearance, she was imagining something like Nils’ old flat – rough and ready, mismatched furniture, band posters and flyers all over the walls, maybe a raw-edged modern art canvass or two – but this place is as neat and as tastefully decorated as anything she’d choose for herself._

_Solange slips Joan’s coat from her shoulders and she’s already imagining the sweep of charcoal on paper as her eyes flicker up and down the girl’s body. She flings her own jacket on a chair and kicks off her boots, motioning for Joan to do the same. Barefoot, there’s a good 15 cm height difference between them._

_“Are you thirsty? Good,” she says as Joan shakes her head, and beckons her to follow._

_As they enter what should be the dining room Joan realises that she really did mean what she said about drawing her. “You're a photographer too, then?” She gestures past the easel at the camera equipment and decorator’s scaffold._

_“Not really. It’s for an idea I’m working on.” Before Joan can question her further, Solange casually instructs her to strip and sets about arranging the lighting to her liking. She’s more than a little startled by the woman’s order. It hadn’t occurred to her that Solange might want to draw her naked. Now all of that business about the studio being too cold makes sense._

_Solange turns and looks surprised to find Joan still fully clothed. “Are you shy, my dear?” she asks._

_“Well, it’s just that – well, I didn’t realise you wanted me to pose nude.” Having your naked body etched on someone’s memory is a whole lot different to having it preserved for posterity for anybody to see and she’s suddenly embarrassed._

_Solange smiles to herself at Joan’s self-consciousness and gently touches her arm. “Is it a problem? You're so striking you must be used to people looking at you all of the time.” Her fingers linger and she moves closer, shining eyes playing over the girl’s awkward expression._

_“But they don’t see me without my clothes on…”_

_“No, I suppose that’s true. And it’s also true that you don’t know anything about me or my work.” She cups Joan's cheek for the briefest of moments and offers a reassuring smile. “I get it, I do. It’s OK. Look, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable so let’s have a drink and get to know each other a little, eh? Come on, sit down,” she waves the hand that still tingles from the touch of Joan's skin towards the two sofas angled around a cluttered coffee table and fetches beers from the small kitchen._

_“Here, see for yourself what I might do with you.” Joan's lap is unceremoniously dwarfed by a large, leather bound album, and Solange opens the cover to reveal photographs of her work. “Take a look, and I will tell you a little about myself.” Throwing herself down on the other sofa she takes a long pull from her bottle and studies the young woman as she pores over the pictures._

_She’s no connoisseur but Solange’s work is impressive, and as she flips through the thick pages she envies her talent and dedication._

_Solange's life sounds like the stuff of novels. The daughter of a cocoa trader, her family relocated to Belgium for her father’s job when she was twelve – and what a shock it had been for a girl used to the heat and colour of the Ivory Coast to find herself in the cold and grey of Northern Europe. But Europe offered her a future that Africa never could; in Africa a girl like her could only dream of studying in Paris or London but in this strange land there were no such constraints. And after art college, a couple of lucky commissions had opened the door to the lucrative world of portraiture – but that’s just bread and butter work she explains dismissively – it’s her private passions that drive her on. Her first love is the transitional period between the medi_ _æval and renaissance styles but there are so many things that she still wants to explore, to master. But, she says with regret, these passions of hers leave little time for love. Maybe she’s loved the wrong women she muses; maybe only the wrong sort of women have loved her… whatever the cause, she’s had enough of struggling and now, if the mood takes her, she may entertain a dalliance – but she keeps her heart safely locked away. She pauses, waiting to see how Joan responds._

_It’s strange to hear a woman talk so openly to a total stranger about loving another woman and it makes her feel a little unnerved – not least because to do so at home is an exercise in danger – but also because it opens the door to the other, unspoken reason why she’s here. Joan hesitates and inspects the pictures of two of paintings seemingly created by the same artist, but five hundred years apart. The small plate at the bottom of one reads: ‘Virgin and Child With Angels, Fouquet 1452’ and the other reads: ‘Dressing For the Blade, 1984’. Solange’s work shows a female prisoner preparing for the guillotine. Joan surmises that the faces clustered behind her represent her sin. Instead of a crown she wears a kerchief over her shorn hair and, instead of the Christ child she holds a simple rosary, her breast bared not for suckling but for mercy like Clytemnestra._

_“Don’t take this the wrong way but I have to admit that this -” she flicks her long fingers up and down to indicate Solange’s appearance, “Doesn’t suggest this,” her fingers waft over the glossy pictures in her lap and Solange throws her head back and laughs in delight._

_“And Hieronymus Bosch looked perfectly normal, but have you seen his stuff?” She pulls a face and Joan joins in with her giggles._

_“So, now that you know something about me, why don’t you tell me about you?”_

_She gives a whistle-stop tour of her parentage, the abortive fencing career, her father’s death and subsequent discovery of her grandmother, and her eventual return to her studies. “Which brings me here to Brussels.”_

_“And winter.”_

_“Yes. it’s definitely an experience, isn’t it? Everyone keeps telling me that I need to see it snow for the full benefit.”_

_“Have you ever seen real snow?” Joan shakes her head. “It’s like nothing you’ve known – it gets really quiet really quickly, and everything looks so pretty, but you’ll get bored of it soon enough – just you wait and see. ”_

_“So, tell me, do you have a lover waiting for you back in Australia?” She smiles as Joan's eyes soften and she nods a shy yes. “And what would she think about you going home with me?”_

_Without thinking she replies. “She’d understand.” Realisation dawns. “Wait, how did you know she was a woman?”  
_

_"Tell me, back in the café, did you see the guy at the end of the bar, the handsome one with the red scarf?”_

_“He ordered a beer. What about him?”_

_Solange chuckles. “That man was desperate to catch your eye but you were too busy looking at me to notice.”_

_“Oh.” She can feel herself colouring up at how easily Solange had read her._

_“She sounds very understanding.”_

_She dips her head, thinking again about Maggie’s blessing then raises her eyes to Solange's and nods. “Yes, she is.”_

_There’s that look again. Solange hurriedly pulls a sketch pad from under the table and slides a box of chalks from beneath a stack of magazines. “Don’t move, Joan. Stay just like that!” This girl is so easy to draw, her features are so strong, her feelings loud in her eyes if you know how to read them. It feels so familiar, as if she’s known her for years, and within a few minutes the essence of this enigmatic creature fills the page. “See how I see you.”_

_The resemblance is startling. How well a few quick lines and smudges can capture her likeness. “I, I… I don’t know what to say. No-one has ever drawn me before.”_

_“And that is a great shame because you are beautiful.” Her expression grows solemn and she holds Joan's gaze. “Will you pose for me, Jeanne? Properly, I mean.”_

_Still she hesitates. It feels so reckless, but memories of her stolen weekends with Nils burst onto the silver screen of her mind and she remembers the exhilaration of breaking the rules. She’d be a fool not to let this adventure unfold, and with a deep breath she uncurls her fingers from the reins of control._

_“Yes,” she says at last and her fingers find the small buttons on her blouse. Slowly it begins to open and she sits up, slipping it from her shoulders as Solange gives a small gasp. She’s braless beneath a thin vest and Solange’s eyes gleam. “Come with me,” she says and lifts the book from her lap, offering Joan her hand as she stands, and leads her towards the dining room._

_She waits, unsure as, moving behind her, Solange lifts a shawl from the back of the low chair and holds it out. “Here, take off your pants and wrap this around your waist.” She busies herself with lights as– no longer prey to embarrassment – Joan does as she’s told. “Those too.”_

_She glances down at her cosy knee socks. “Can’t I keep them on? I’ll have goosebumps on my goosebumps.”_

_“What are ‘goosebumps’?”_

_“These – look!” she holds out her arm and runs a long finger over her stippled skin._

_“Ah,” murmurs Solange in understanding as she smoothes a small section of Joan’s forearm with a fingertip. “Here we call it ‘having chicken skin’. No problem, I will fix it for you.” And in seconds a small heater bursts into life and its rays angled to ward off the evening chill, and Solange waits – amusement twitching her full lips – as Joan peels off the offending hosiery before guiding her to the padded seat and arranging her in a position of her liking._

_How strange it is to be touched like this. Apart from her doctor, Maggie and her grandmother, only two other women have touched her bare skin, and the warm palm between her shoulder blades sends a prickle of heat rushing to her scalp. She feels it creeping into her cheeks as fingers flit over the ribbon-thin strap of her vest._

_“Can I have this, too?” Solange’s eyes burn with a strange intensity, their iridescent border concentrating a hypnotic lustre that entrances Joan, and they widen in reverence as Joan pulls it over her head and reveals her bare breasts. Breath catches in Solange’s throat and Joan inhales sharply as an erratic beat pulses in her clit. “One last thing.” She gathers Joan’s heavy hair in her hands, sweeping it off her face and into a low bun, securing it with a couple of clips stolen from a drop cloth, to reveal her plain beauty._

_Solange works steadily, all her concentration on capturing Joan, and it’s an hour before she allows her model to move. In the silence Joan has been imagining how Solange sees her, and butterflies chase around in her chest as she visualises their positions reversed. What would Solange look like naked? A dark pulse tugs at her core each time she thinks about Solange's breasts or that slender gap between her rounded thighs… her reverie is rudely shattered when Solange claps her hands._

_“Bon! Now I want to try something else.” Pausing for a couple of reference photos, she covers her easel and approaching Joan, she takes her by her hands and gently steers her to one side as she clears the space and spreads what looks like a velvet curtain on the floor. Next she sets up the camera in a cradle fixed to the ceiling, climbing the precarious scaffolding to ease herself over the viewfinder and frame the shot. She almost flows back down the rickety metal steps and her breath warms Joan's skin as hands settle on her hips and the scarf is slowly untucked, and Joan shivers with the competing sensations. Solange's nearness is lighting a fire and Joan wants to kiss her, she can feel the need gathering in her lips as she gazes down at her and her belly quivers with a suppressed sigh._

_“Would you remove your underwear, Jeanne?” She smiles in encouragement as the girl bites her lip and hesitantly hooks her thumbs under the waistband._

_When asked, Joan lies face down and adopts a crucifixion pose on the deep crimson cloth. It smells faintly of incense and she wrinkles her nose against a threatening sneeze._

_Joan is genuinely breath-taking. Solange can only marvel at her lean length, at the sweeping curve of her waist and the flare of her hips; her eyes linger on the nape of Joan's neck, finding immense pleasure in how those three small arrowheads of hair frame its nakedness – like a Maiko, she thinks absently. With trembling hands she measures the light and focuses the camera, then captures a few frames using the handy shutter release cable before having her turn over and repeat the pose. She takes her time finessing her muse; released from the clips, Joan’s thick, raven hair slips glassily through her fingers as she combs it out across the velvet, she adjusts the cant of her chin, the flex of her fingers, the tilt of her toes until she’s satisfied._

_“I want you to imagine that you are waiting for your love, Jeanne. That you are dreaming of that first kiss when you see her again.” Joan closes her eyes and Solange shudders at the sensual pout that flickers over her mouth. The girl seems to glow with an ethereal luminosity, like freshly split marble in the moonlight. “Now imagine that you are held fast, try to pull yourself free.” She watches in awe as Joan flexes and strains, frustration playing over her expressive face, creasing her fine brow, pulling at her lips…_

_When the roll ends she changes cameras but refrains from taking further shots. Instead she clambers down to crouch beside Joan. “Oh, my dear!” she exclaims breathlessly. “You are_ magnifique! _Will you let me try one more thing? Will you pose with me?”_

_A burst of warmth from the heater swirls around her ribs as Joan sits up, and she’s barely finished nodding before Solange is pulling off her sweatshirt and pushing her gleaming leather jeans from her hips. She tries not to stare at those lusciously plump thighs and the small pot belly that tops a dense fleece hiding (for the most part) her dark interior, or at her small tits that point from her chest, her long nipples jutting from swollen conical areolae, or indeed at the joyous curve of her sumptuous backside, but a scorching lust flows from deep in her loins and she’s hopelessly snared. She drinks in how Solange's body flexes as she winds her way to the top of the scaffold and touches a button on the camera – and then how her body almost pours its way back down – with a burning thirst._

_With a shove, the scaffold rolls away and the first burst of the flash captures Solange's toes as she steps onto the crimson field. Needling heat races across her skin as Solange lies down next to her and the next shot catches Joan mid-shudder; but Solange is hotter, and even though she’s lying down, Joan feels giddy from her heat. “Relax and focus on the camera, Jeanne.” Solange's voice is like honey in her ear and it sends more erotic vibrations shimmering down her spine._

_She counts six second between frames as they lay side by side and then Solange turns on her side and Joan's breath stalls in her chest as she wills her to lean in and kiss her. But Solange's hand settles softly in the hollow beneath her ribs and Joan flinches at the surge of sensation; her breath is warm against Joan's cheek, her palm like a brand against her belly._

_“Is this OK?” asks Solange softly. Joan nods._ Click _._

_Long fingers trail over her navel as Solange's hand floats lower to hover over her inner thigh. “You don’t mind?”_

_Joan looks down shakes her head. “No, I don’t mind.” Her eyes widen at the firm pressure and a tightness tugs at her clit._ Click _._

_Another delicious tickle as Solange's dark hand works is way up her hip and along the curve of her waist, and Joan bites her lip at the tremor that chases between her throat and her sex. Her eyelids flutter like her breath as Solange's fingers settle on her breast. “Do you mind this, Jeanne?”_

_She slides her gaze to Solange’s and finds that she has been robbed of her voice. “Not at all,” she whispers and swallows thickly against the buzzing that fills her like an electric current._ Click _._

_Then Solange pushes into her side and Joan almost melts. Her knee lies deliciously heavy on Joan's mons, eliciting stifled moans as she manoeuvres herself into position before the camera above them clicks and whirrs once more. She’s crushing her arm but Joan couldn’t care less: she’s far more concerned with the steady throb that’s issuing from her swollen cunt as Solange eases her breast against her own, and a shuddering breath forces its way out as Solange’s ebony nipple brushes the pale disc of Joan's areola. She needs to be kissed. She needs to be kissed now, and she raises her head, turning into the woman’s fiery embrace, parting her lips as her eyes burn into Solange's but she’s denied her demand and somehow manages to swallow her disappointment when Solange gently restrains her and rolls onto her back. “Now, you do the same to me.”_

_Joan almost slaps her palm onto Solange's midriff, churning as she is with a mixture of petulance and eagerness to move to the next shot, but for all her desperate desire, she can feel her face burning as she moves it lower, and her fingertips trail hesitantly towards their target until Solange takes Joan's hand and flattens her palm high on the inside of her thigh. Soft hair tickles her index finger and she can feel the damp heat trapped within. It makes her clit throb tightly and she inhales sharply, regretting having to let go even as she covers Solange's waiting breast, and a current twists through Joan making her lightheaded as unfamiliar flesh fills her hand._

_“Encore une fois,” she whispers, forgetting herself, and her eyes widen as Joan's wetness brushes against her hip, a small “Oh!” falling from her lips as their nipples touch. The final second before the flash bursts into life stretches out for an agony, testing her resolve as her clit hums like a motor beneath the weight of Joan's slender thigh._

_As the flash fades, a kitten-soft kiss brushes the angle of her jaw and Solange smiles knowingly as breath hitches in the girl's throat. “Give me your hand, Jeanne.” Their eyes lock as she guides it to her unoccupied breast and gently encourages Joan to squeeze._

_Hip to hip, breast to breast, mouth to mouth … They move together in the ache of desire; fitting together effortlessly as passion takes them._


	3. Chapter 3

“Even as a child you had to hurt things.” In years to come, her father’s criticism would be more agonising than one of his beatings. He never wanted to understand her own fiercely held sense of what was right and what was wrong. He never appeared to witness her successes – only the aftermath of her failures. And when the repercussions of her actions put him in a bad light she would be punished. Punished for only doing what he had taught her to do.

School had revealed to her the hell that was other people. Jammed in with a hundred or more other children she had tried her best to acclimatise, and it had been OK when her mother was still there to kiss her scrapes better, but after she had run away it had become less OK – much less.

Those children – no, they weren’t children, they were animals: feral and dangerous – they had hurt Joan first, maybe not always directly, but they offended the strict order instilled in the quiet girl who watched from the periphery. Some of them had already turned harassment into an art form, in others, she could sense their wrongness; and she knew that left unchecked they would grow up to be monsters. Just like her brother. They needed a taste of their own medicine before it was too late… And so, in a way, her father would be correct in his observation – she did need to see them suffer for their crimes as the delicate balance was restored.

When she was eight, she had punched Tracey Richardson square in the face for telling lies about her mother.

When she was twelve, she broke Billy Simons’ finger when he tried to put his hand up her dress.

Once, when she was fourteen, she had baked shards of broken glass into a fairy cake to teach Jonathan Bailey a lesson. Ever since she’d been moved up a grade, he’d been on her back. And he was untouchable – apart from being the school’s top jock, his father owned half the town; no-one tangled with that family and came away the better for it. She’d thought that the glass would frighten him off but he’d taken it as a personal challenge to destroy her, and only her father’s silent intervention had made it stop.

Only, she never dared to punish her brother as she knew he deserved to be. Like Jonathan Bailey, he had the protection of their father, but unlike Jonathan, he had brains. He basked in the proud man’s affection whilst she was lucky to find leftover scraps that she could call her own. And Joan knew that he was dangerous. She’d spent years watching him torture insects and small animals for fun – always managing to blame her for the remains their father found littering the garden. She’d spent even more years defending herself against his sly kicks and punches, his manipulative arrogance and his smear campaigns. The only relief she found was at school. Luckily, the ten short months separating their births placed them in different years, and Joan took as much advantage of this enforced separation as she could.

As she grew older, she’d learned never to be naked behind an unlocked door or an undrawn curtain. “I shouldn’t worry too much, Joan. Boys of his age are naturally curious,” her father had told his thirteen-year-old daughter when she’d finally plucked up sufficient courage to tell him; and he had then proceeded to lecture her on how women that flaunted themselves were morally dubious and asking to be raped. When she complained again a month later, he told her that she must take more care not to encourage her brother. If he’d punished Brian then she never saw any evidence of it.

When he turned fourteen, he’d taken to masturbating in front of her – displaying his erection like a fucking baboon or something. The sight of that angry looking meat stick poking out from his fly made her feel sick but she refused to be intimidated by him, and had cut this new attempt at dominance short by ‘accidentally’ spilling a scalding hot cup of tea into his naked lap.

For the most part though, she kept out of his way.

Not long after his fifteenth birthday she discovered just how dangerous Brian could be:

_She had been looking forward to ninety glorious minutes of alone time in an empty house. Brian was at footie practice and Dad wasn’t due back until six and, other than putting the casserole in the oven, she had no demands on her time. She slammed the front door, her bag thudding carelessly on the mat – neither of which would have been tolerated had the Major been there – and Joan permitted herself a little smile of satisfaction at her minor rebellion. An unexpected noise made her look up from unlacing her sensible school shoes…_

_Clutching her underwear in one hand, the glassy eyed girl felt her way down the hall. Her honey-dark face was reddened and swollen – her left eye already a deep, puffy blue and slitted – and she cradled her belly as if something were tearing at her insides. The neck of her cheap, peach coloured T-shirt sagged on one side and a trickle of what looked like blood worked its way down the inside of a bruised thigh. She couldn’t be more than thirteen thought Joan as she stared at her in horror._

_The fragile looking girl shied away in alarm as Joan bent down to gently inspect her face but, when Brian appeared at his bedroom door, she allowed herself to be taken into the protection of Joan’s arms and held. She reeked of alcohol and of fear – her rank sweat sharp and sour in Joan’s nose – and she began to shake violently as shock set in._

_“What have you done to her, Brian?” Her fingers slid over each and every bone in the girl’s prominent ribcage as she stroked her back in reassurance. She fluttered like an injured bird under her touch._

_“Rack off, Lurch.”_

_“What the bloody hell did you do?” she hissed as he smirked at her and reached down to adjust his balls._

_“Whatever I wanted to.” He lounged against the door frame with an arrogance that made her blood boil. “She knew what she was coming here for. Didn’t you, Boong?” he fired at the cringing girl._

_“I’m calling the Police.” She took a step towards the phone. The girl staggered with the sudden movement and clung to her like the child she was._

_“So, do it,” he challenged with a jerk of his chin. “What would they care? She’s just another useless Abo.”_

_“Just who do you think you are? She’s a human being, you piece of shit!”_

_He scoffed at her. “Go on, then, Joan, call them. I dare you. Go on...” He nodded down the hallway then turned back to her with a smug look. “And I’ll tell Dad that you’re a fucking lezzer.” He grinned malevolently as shock drained her face of expression. “Yeah, I know it’s true too. Richie’s brother saw you in Cairns, saw you with those queers.” He took a step forward, the crop of pimples on his forehead catching the light like infected rubies as he stared down at her with malicious contempt. “Never have had a boyfriend, have you? ‘S not like that Nils is up for the job, is it, eh? And you_ really _liked Maggie.”_

_It felt as if the earth had fallen away and Joan swallowed thickly. “Ha! You don’t know what you’re talking about, dick head,” she blustered. “Even if it was true, you’ve certainly no proof of anything!” How long had he known? Was it all ‘round school?_

_“Maybe, maybe not, but I’m sure Dad’ll have something to say about it. Even more when I tell him how I found you two together._ In bed _,” he added with a sly titter, tremendously pleased with his inventiveness. “Remember how mental he went when he found that pooftah in your room? And the fact that she’s black just makes it even better,” he crowed, clapping his hands in glee. The Major had no time for the Indigenous peoples – he thought them all dirty, lazy beggars; drunken primitives who should not be allowed in decent society. His children were certainly not permitted to mix with them._

_It was less than six months ago that The Major had stripped her naked and beaten her with a training foil for disgracing herself – and him – by supposedly sleeping with Nils. As if on cue, the scars on her thighs began to itch as a clammy sweat broke out across her body at the terror of that night. The thought of what he might do to her this time was unimaginable but she couldn’t let Brian get away with this._

_“Oh yeah? And how are you going to explain her injuries?”_

_“Easy, I’ll just say that she attacked me when I said I’d tell him, and that I was forced to defend myself. They’re all fucking crazy bitches anyway. Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, “Dad’ll love that. I reckon you’ll get the beating of your life. Reckon you might just get kicked out for something like that.”_

_She’d never felt so powerless! He had her over a barrel. If Dad started asking questions down at the train station then he’d find out about her secret visits to Nils. Then he’d go to the wrong end of Cairns and ask more questions, and with Brian’s accusations still ringing in his ears it wouldn’t matter if no-one said they knew her because he’d refuse to believe them. She glared at him with more loathing than she ever thought possible; if she had a gun, Brian would be dead right now._

_He laughed at her impotent fury and grabbed his holdall from inside his room, and she drew back as he advanced down the hall towards them, feeling the girl hold her breath as he stopped and pushed his face into Joan's. “Face it, Joanie, you’re never gonna win against me,” he said with a triumphant leer; and she fleetingly wondered what would happen if she were to sink her teeth into his cheek, and her jaw tightened as she bit down on the urge to find out._

_In the blink of an eye his whole demeanour changed – as if they’d been doing little more than chatting at a church picnic – and he smiled brightly. “Righto, I’m off out. Can’t have Dad thinking I wagged training, can I?”_

_As soon as the door slammed behind him the girl pulled away like a frightened fawn. Her dark eyes darted to Brian’s empty room and she took a half-step then stalled, afraid to go back into that place of danger. “I lost me bag…” she mumbled and pulled nervously at the hem of her T-shirt. She wouldn’t look at Joan._

_Joan wrinkled her nose at the pervasive stench of teenage boy as she crossed the threshold, quick eyes scanning her brother’s room in search of the girl’s bag. It was neat as a pin – just as hers was – and, other than his hastily made bed, there was nothing to suggest he’d spent the afternoon brutalising a girl in there. The muscles in her cheek twitched and pulled her lip into a feral snarl as pure hatred burned in her veins. She found the girl’s bag behind the door; a sad little half-moon in scuffed pink vinyl. Cheap plastic diamonds, inexpertly glued across one side, spelled out the word ‘RAE’. Beside it lay a pair of battered plastic sandals, also in a sickly shade of pink; she picked them up with a grimace._

_“Rae, that’s your name, is it?” she asked as she shut the door on the scene of the crime. The girl nodded and took the bag, poking through the meagre contents with shaking fingers until they encountered a crumpled packet of Dunhills. “Got a light?” she asked. Joan led her into the kitchen and handed her the box of matches from the side of the stove then opened the back door so that her dad wouldn’t smell the fresh smoke when he got home._

_She wasn’t prepared for the extent of the girl’s injuries as they revealed themselves in the stark daylight, and Joan felt the prick of tears as she stared in horror. The left side of Rae’s face was a shocking mass of red and purple and blue lumps – split lip, eye swollen shut, nose still bloody – and she had angry bruises and finger marks all round her neck and wrists too; in fact, there didn’t seem to be anywhere that she wasn’t marked by Brian. Blood continued to ooze down her thigh, and Joan doubted very much that it was the curse. She wanted to take Rae in her arms again and soothe away all of the pain and horror but it didn’t seem right; guilt that she was related to the boy who had committed this atrocity tugged the corners of her mouth downwards and she hung back, unsure. Instead, she jammed her shaking hands into the pockets of her uniform and opted for the more practical approach. It was important to think clearly at times like these._

_“You have to report this, Rae,” she said. “I’ll go to the Police station with you if you like.”_

_Rae pulled the unlit cigarette from her mouth and for the first time, tears sprang to her eyes. “No way! I can’t bring the Jacks back home with me – me dad’ll kill me. He hates ‘em! So don’t you say nuthin’.” She stared at Joan in defiance before her face crumpled and she sagged against the windowsill, thin hand pressing against her lower stomach. “If you do, I’ll tell ‘em that some skinheads got me,” she gasped through the pain._

_Joan recognised that fear – the fear of disgrace, of secrets being uncovered – yet it wasn’t right that Brian should get away with something as foul and as disgusting as this. Damn him and his threats. “But –”_

_Rae cut her off. “It’s not gonna do no good anyways.” Straightening up, she lit the cigarette and blew a shaky plume of smoke through the screen door. “They’ll say it’s my fault. I shouldn’t’ve been down at the beach in the first place. And it was my grog – I_ wanted _to get drunk! They’ll put me in a home this time, I know they will!” Panic flashed in her one good eye._

_“But Rae, it wasn’t your fault! He… He raped you! Look at you, you're hurt! Don’t you want him to pay for what he’s done?” The girl just shook her head and Joan bit her lip in worry. “Look, what if he does it again?” she tried._

_“Yeah? Well, if he does, it won’t be me again, will it?” Her voice was thick with a bitter anger but she couldn’t stop it wavering as she pleaded, “Please, just let me go home?”_

_“But, Rae… You can’t let him get away with it!”_

_“No! I just wanna go.” Tears threatened to spill and Joan felt thoroughly helpless in the face of her refusal. She wished that Maggie was here. Maggie would know how to deal with this. She always knew the right words to make things better._

_What could she do? “OK,” she agreed with reluctance. “If that’s what you want. But I think we should get you cleaned up a bit first, eh? We don’t want you bleeding through your skirt on the way home…” The girl looked down at her leg and nodded, and Joan took her leave to prepare the shower._

_It was a relief to be away from Rae. She understood as much as anyone what it was like to want to escape an unhappy home and do things she’s not supposed to; she’d experienced the allure of mixing with older kids who had booze and money and drugs, but it was a sobering thought to realise that she could have ended up just like that girl if it hadn’t been for Nils looking out for her. She knew that there were some really bad bastards out there but couldn’t fathom how Brian, brought up with the same values as her, had gone so badly wrong._

_Sensibly, she selected the darkest towel they had and laid it out on the vanity. Next to it she lined up a sanitary towel and tubes of arnica and antiseptic cream. The reason for Rae needing these things caused a fresh surge of anger and she splashed her hot face with water but it did nothing to help soothe her rattled emotions. If something like this had happened to her she knew that she’d want to see the offender punished. She couldn’t understand why Rae refused to make a complaint, especially when she had a witness. Surely her parents would understand; surely they’d want to see Brian punished for what he’d done to their little girl?_

_As Rae showered Joan took the opportunity to change out of her school uniform. From habit, she stood behind her bedroom door before lifting the checked dress over her head – even though she knew that Brian wouldn’t come bursting in – and it occurred to her how normalised her acceptance of his behaviour had become, and it made her bridle at her own complicity._

_She was brushing out her plaits when she heard the front door close and terror made her stomach lurch as she imagined her father’s early return and his discovery of Rae. She was almost too scared to leave her room but the absence of shouting gave her courage and she ventured down the hall to find the bathroom door open and the shower still running. The bath mat was dry, the pad was gone, and there was no sign of Rae. Picking up the towel she discovered one corner was soaked through – pink tinged water running over her fingers as she wrung it out over the sink – and Joan blinked back the sting of tears as she threw it into the washing machine and grimly set about wiping away all traces of that afternoon’s events._

_Rae’s smoke still lingered in the kitchen and Joan opened the window, hoping that the draught would sweep it away – she could do without being accused of underage smoking by her father – and diligently, she dumped the contents of the ashtray into a twist of kitchen paper and binned it. There, everything as it should be once more, except… except… Glancing at the clock, she cursed and yanked the casserole out of the fridge and slammed it in the oven, cranking up the heat with a quick mental calculation. Twenty minutes late but it should be just about done by supper time. Dad wouldn’t be any the wiser. Her main problem would be Brian – her stomach knotted at the prospect of sitting across the table from him and playing happy families as if none of this had ever happened._

_*****_

_“…Thank you, Kelly. And now, over to Terry Rylance in Alligator Creek”_

_“Yes, tragedy struck early this morning as Police were called to an apparent arson attack at a caravan park on the outskirts of town and found the bodies of missing teenage runaway Rae M cLintock and her six-month-old son, Tyler. A post mortem will be held tomorrow to determine the exact cause of death but at this time the Police aren’t ruling out foul play.” _

_The TV reporter’s commentary paused and Joan looked up from ironing her father’s shirt to glance at the pictures that they always managed to find of the victims. What she saw made her wish she hadn’t. There, taking up the whole screen, was Rae, the girl that Brian had attacked. And in her stiff arms was a baby. A baby with golden hair and The Major’s eyes. Brian’s son. Her nephew._

_Something she couldn’t name broke inside Joan and she stood as lifeless as a statue as she fought back tears. That poor girl! She’d never had a chance in life and now she never would. And the child! Her own flesh and blood. Silent tears trickled down her cheeks as she mourned the futility of it all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of Nils and Joan being beaten by her father happens in Tryptych One Part 1 - Paying the Price


	4. Chapter 4

That’s worrying, thinks Joan as she touches the key to the lock and her apartment door swings open. There’s an art to securing it – the landlord had been most insistent that she master it before he handed over the key – it needs a firm tug (or shove) as you twist the key or else it only pretends to lock itself. She can find no evidence of force to suggest a case of breaking and entry but she’s certain she locked up properly this morning. She’s sure of it.

Silently, she steps into the dim vestibule and listens but there’s nothing except the usual muted sounds of her neighbours through the thin walls. She sniffs the air but can detect no foreign scent. Adrenaline courses through her and she carefully slides the heavy old umbrella from its stand, pointing its blunted steel ferrule ahead of her as she makes her way stealthily into the living area. Its’s just as she left it, so is the small kitchen. Blood pounds in her ears as she glances towards the bedroom, and she hefts the makeshift lance in her hand as she creeps down the short hallway. Her room is empty, nothing out of place, and she lets out her breath in a whoosh as her anxiety starts to trickle away. Lastly, she checks the bathroom. She doesn’t expect to find anything but there’s still a fleeting chill of fear in her gut as she swishes aside the shower curtain with the tip of her umbrella. She scolds herself for having such an overactive imagination and resolves to take extra care tomorrow morning; yet it doesn’t stop her from getting out of bed and double-checking that the apartment’s secure before she can finally go to sleep that night.

The door’s firmly locked when she gets home today and she puts yesterday’s incident down to an error on her part. The scene of devastation that greets her as she draws level with the arch into the living area stuns her into stillness and she stands in the midst of the destruction as her mind whirls. There’s no stealth this time as she shakes herself into action and arms herself with the umbrella, marching into each of the four rooms that make up her small home, daring the culprit to still be there. The place has been ransacked but, oddly, nothing obvious seems to have been taken – after all, what does she have of any real value here – but everything she _does_ own has been damaged in some way. Her limited wardrobe lies ripped and trampled on the floor and she can see clean through the holes in her suitcase. She’s glad she carries her passport with her because the shreds of whatever documents she had safely tucked beneath her overturned mattress now litter the apartment like a lunatic’s ticker tape. The bathroom looks like an explosion in a tart’s boudoir although it smells more like a hospital from the shattered bottle of antiseptic; obviously anything not attached to the walls was fair game and she stares grimly at the homage to Jackson Pollock – executed in body lotion, shampoo and a rather expensive conditioner – that covers every surface. In the lounge, porcelain shrapnel strews the polished wooden floors where the few ornaments she’s picked up over the last year have exploded – thrown from their homes as the furniture they stood on was hurled across the room. And, lying crippled in the corner, looking like a strange space capsule as its innards leak from its splintered plastic casing lies the small TV she inherited from the previous tenant. She doesn’t even bother to look in the kitchen. Thankfully, the phone is still working and she trembles with indignation as she dials the police.

As she waits for them to arrive, Joan sifts through fragments of Maggie's letters – all of them torn and mangled. She knows the letters they came from off by heart. She can recreate in her mind’s eye every word her lover has scrawled in her old-fashioned, looping script – but she shouldn’t have to rely on memory! Bastards! Anger sizzles through muscles wound so tight they hurt, and her wrathful scowl deepens as she rails at the malicious intrusion into her private life. It disturbs her mightily that her home isn’t safe, but it’s more worrying that this seems to be a targeted attack. But why? Who would have done this to her? She lives a respectable life here. She doesn’t have any enemies that she knows of and she’s definitely not in conflict with anybody. Well, not unless you count Brian, but his delegation left two days ago; she knows this because she’d made a point of checking.

The polite young detective who eventually turns up does nothing the lessen her concerns and she’s seething with rage when she calls Maggie.

“I might as well have not bothered with the Police,” she criticises. “Useless bastards! Tried to make out that it was an ex-boyfriend at first. And when I finally convinced them that it wasn’t, they said that it must have been some street kids looking for money for their next fix, but they can’t explain how they got in or out again. Told me to get the lock changed if I was still worried.” Having Maggie listen to her vent has allowed her to calm down a fair bit but even now she’s still shaking with a mixture of unease and outrage and, as Maggie soothes her, she feels it all come to a head and tears escape the corners of her eyes. They tickle as they slide down the side of her nose and she wipes them brusquely away, angry at her own weakness and self-pity.

“Look, Love, why don’t you stay in a nice hotel for a day or two and charge it all to the landlord until they sort it out?

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, Mags, but it’s almost Spring Festival – there’s not an empty room anywhere. I’ll just tell him that if I don’t have a new deadbolt and window locks by the time I get home tomorrow then I may have to mention the illegal poker school he runs down in the one of the storage units to that nice detective.”

“But what about tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Look, by the time I’ve cleaned this mess up I think I’ll be too tired to care, but if I’ve got the energy I’ll push a table or something against the door.”

It takes two hours of hard, sweaty work and most of her rubbish sacks to get the flat righted and now she stands in the middle of order once more, thinking how bare and soulless it looks – just as it had the day she had moved in – but she can’t let herself stop now. Another hour spent at the crowded late-night markets replaces the essentials she’ll need until she can devote some proper time to the matter.

She does indeed push the table against the door and she stuffs little cardboard wedges under its feet for good measure. ‘OK, you bastards’, she mutters under her breath, ‘do your worst…’ She hadn’t thought that she’d be able to sleep but as soon as she lies down she’s too tired to even care that the new sheets haven’t been washed first or that the pillows haven’t been aired. As she drifts off, she slides her hands up and touches two of her other new purchases that she’s carefully tucked under either end of her pillow – a can of mace and a personal alarm.

Tonight is Chinese New Year’s eve, the streets are loud with people gathered to welcome in the Spring Festival and even the usually busy landings that span each floor of the apartment block are deserted as the revelry takes hold. It’s nice to sit in her apartment and not hear her neighbours for once. In defence of the ever-present heat, she’s sprawled on the sofa in just her underpants and a singlet as she works her way through the latest Stephen King novel, the unexpected knock on the door sends fingers of disquiet sliding around her guts before it occurs to her that it’s probably just the Police checking up on her, and she lays the book aside and grabs her new sarong, knotting it around her waist as she pads into the hallway. “Who is it?” she asks. The reply is too muffled to make out. “Who?” she asks again and presses her ear to the front door - really, is it too much to expect a spyhole? It sounds like “…’a ‘or…” The landlord? He’s left it a little late in the day to fit the bolts he’s promised her, but at least he’s kept to his word. She shrugs and leans against the door to unlock it.

His bloodshot eyes are too bright, too wide. Sweat beads on his forehead, his upper lip; it pastes his shirt to his body in darkened islands. He stinks. Brian fills the doorway and, for a fleeting second, she sees her father. She stiffens as a bad feeling percolates through her chest.

“Hello, Joanie. It’s so hard to catch you in. I’ve been ‘round several times but you're always out.” A spurt of icy unease prickles across her scalp but she holds her ground as he plants his hands either side of the door frame and leans in past her shoulder, attempting to intimidate her whilst making a cursory show of inspecting the interior.

“I thought you’d gone home. Get lost in a brothel, did you?” she says tonelessly, refusing to yield even though she can feel the wetness of his shirt against her bare skin.

Brian ignores her. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he comments benignly, pushing himself easily back out onto the catwalk. “Shame someone trashed all your stuff though.” His mouth settles into a self-satisfied smirk and Joan knows it was him.

Jesus, what a despicable excuse for a human being! As spoilt and entitled as ever. But things have changed. Dad’s not here to keep her in her place any longer, so if he thinks that he can push her around like he used to then he has another think coming!

“Why are you here, Brian? What could you possibly want after all this time?”

“Did you think that you could embarrass me like that and get away with it?” A curt laugh escapes her lips at his whining, and he stiffens.

“Did you think that you could call me a slut and get away with it?” she fires back. “It’s not so nice when it’s directed back at you, is it?” He gives a dismissive snort and shoulders his way inside.

“I don’t remember inviting you in.” He shrugs and throws himself down on the couch, sprawling out like he owns the place and rubbing his stink into the cushions. A muscle twitches in her cheek. “I thought that we were done, Brian. After all, that’s what you told me at Dad’s funeral. We certainly had nothing to say to each other the other night.”

“Yeah, well, call it… nostalgia.”

“Just go, Brian. You’re not wanted here.”

“Don’t be like that, Joan,” he drawls. “Nice little set-up you’ve got here, eh? Of course, it’d be different if Dad were still with us.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You wouldn’t be swanning off round the world if you didn’t have all his money to do it on.”

She rolls her eyes at this. “Don’t be so stupid, it’s my work, you moron. Anyway, you got the same as me. If you’ve spent it all then that’s your hard luck isn’t it? What I do with my share is certainly none of your business!”

“Still, you killed Dad.”

Yes, she had. It had been a case of kill or be killed; a kind of pre-emptive self-defence. He’d murdered their mother and she knew he’d do the same to her if she defied him again. Killing him was necessary. It was right. But no-one else knows, and that’s the way she intends to keep it. She looks down at him with scorn. “You never give up, do you, hm? He did it to himself. He drank himself stupid and couldn’t get up when he fell. How the hell is that ‘me killing him’? Go on, tell me!”

He scoffs up at her. “You weren’t too cut up about it though, were you, eh? Couldn’t wait to fuck off and shack up with your favourite lezzer.” Joan feels eerily hollow as the horrible realisation dawns on her that he’s read Maggie's letters. Her eyes skip to the drawer of the little card table where, bound with blue string, they used to live.

“Why don’t you just go, Brian? You’ve had your fun. You’ve let me know it’s you who’s the big man. I can’t see that there’s anything else to keep you here.”

“Oh no, Joan. There’s plenty to keep me here. You don’t seem to realise that you need to be punished for what you’ve done.”

“And what is it that I’m supposed to have done, Brian? Pray, do tell.”

His eyes glitter darkly. “You destroyed my father, isn’t that enough? And do you reckon that you can take up with that bull dyke girlfriend of yours and get away with it? Not on my watch, Joan, not on my watch. There’s too many deviants running ‘round, polluting people’s minds with their sickness. I mean, do you think it’s decent to let yourself be painted naked and then to have it flaunted all over the world? Have you no shame?”  
  


He sounds different and it takes her a moment or two of puzzling to realise why – he’s lost those little inflections that mark them out as children of immigrants. She regards him dispassionately for several long moments as she lights a cigarette and directs the stream of smoke at his head to mask his stench. “You hated that he kept me close at the end, didn’t you? Couldn’t bear to think that I was finally getting a share of what you’d had all your life. But don’t worry, I didn’t get any of what you did – he saved all of that for you. No, what I got was a part in his experiment. It was all about him and how brilliant a fencer he was, what a fabulous coach… I was just a glorified lab rat!”

He glares at her in revulsion as she draws deeply on her cigarette. “Don’t fucking lie, you used him! When he had nothing else to teach you, you told him that you were joining a better squad. It broke his heart thinking that he wasn’t good enough – that’s what killed him. If only he knew what you were really like.”

Angry jets of smoke shoot from her nostrils and she tuts in loud disgust at her father’s lies. “No, what broke his fucking heart was realising that he’d shot himself in the foot by getting me into the National team, because he wasn’t _allowed_ to continue coaching me in Canberra. What caused his stroke was me finally daring to believe in myself and telling him that I was going anyway. He was the user, Brian, not me.”

“At least he didn’t live long enough to see you ruin the family name.” 

“Don’t you dare talk to me about decency, Brian,” she spits. “That bible that you wave about doesn’t magically erase what you are. You’re no better than he was – two rapists together. Hypocrites hiding behind those crosses of yours, hoping that if you play the part well enough then no-one will realise what you’re _really_ like. I pity any woman that ends up with you!”

“Bitch!!” The slap knocks her sideways and before she can regain her balance he’s on her. Wildfire dances across her scalp as he drags her around by her hair and slaps her again and again. She can hear her brain bouncing as the force of his blows travels through her skull. Mercifully, her scrabbling feet find purchase and she pushes up, catching him a glancing jab to the throat; it’s enough to make him falter and she seizes the advantage – grabbing him by the wrist and elbow and twisting his arm until his fingers loosen – and she straightens up to deliver a solid kick to his knee. She has no time to see the fist that crunches into her ribs as he turns into the hold. Raw pain explodes beneath her left armpit and she staggers back gasping for air.

“Hurts, don’t it?” he taunts, bouncing on his toes. She tries to breathe through the saw-like burning in her side and curses herself for letting herself become so weak – she’s lost the muscle she had when she was fencing – and although her reflexes are still pretty good her brother has the benefit of an extra ten centimetres and probably another thirty kilos or more on her.

As he takes a step forward she realises her rookie mistake: she’s given him the advantage and now he stands between her and the kitchen with its knives, and between her and the hallway and its door to the outside. She has no weapon but her body and her wits. She scans the room looking for the best escape route and realises that she has three options – none of which are favourable: she can go over, under or around him. Her best chance is the most unlikely. Over then…

Narrowing her eyes, she gauges the height of the ceiling and hitches up her skirt then launches herself at a run. He unwittingly crouches in readiness for her attack and his thigh gives her the perfect springboard, and she thinks that she’s going to make it as his collar bone grates under her sole, and then she’s falling. They’re both falling. She’s blinded by her own hair and kicks out wildly towards the sounds of his heavy panting as, dazed and winded, she scrambles away from his clutches. Each desperate breath is like twin knives in her lungs but she forces herself to her feet, and pitiful relief makes her sob as she lurches towards the arch; and then he’s on her again, grunting, clawing up her back to wrap his arm around her face, suffocating her as he drags her back into the room, and she bites into acrid skin, sawing her teeth from side to side as she flings her elbow into his solar plexus. His grip weakens and Joan makes herself go limp, her dead weight slipping from his hold, and then she’s up and running.

But freedom is fleeting and he’s got hold of her hair again, and with a kick to the calf she’s on her knees and he’s pulling her away from the archway, blood trickling down his forearm as he raises his fist. “Whore!” he rages. The look in his eyes is terrifying and she’s convinced that he’s going to kill her. Gathering every bit of strength, she delivers an uppercut to his groin and yelps as the fist in her hair contracts then slackens enough for her to pull away.

She almost falls as she lurches wildly across the room and it’s only sheer determination that’s keeping Joan upright as she puts distance between the two of them. “No!” she hears herself shout in high-pitched anger as Brian’s fingers dig into her waist, and she elbows him in the face making him stumble back. His foot must have landed on her novel because it goes skidding across the room as he crashes heavily to the floor. She doesn’t see his feet shoot out but she feels them as they tangle around her ankles and his knees jack-knife, whipping her feet from under her, and she’s falling headlong into the three small steps that take you up into the kitchen. The edge of the top riser connects with the side of her head like a mule kick and she can see nothing as darkness explodes all around and pain flares jagged white against the booming void. She’s stunned, helplessly tangled in an underwater fog as he kicks her a few times. The pain barely registers as he boots her across the wooden floor, and then there’s nothing…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her father’s stroke and death occur in Tryptych One Part 3 - Keeping It In The Family


	5. Chapter 5

There’s a burning, a biting in her chest won’t let her sleep. Oh please, can’t they just leave her alone? It’s so much nicer here in the comfortable dark… Fire rakes her sternum and she’s forced into the jarring brightness of reality.

“Wakey, wakey, Joan!” Brian’s face swims into focus and she can see that she’s caught him a belter across his nose but she feels way to disconnected to have any pride in it. She must have passed out because he’s managed to tie her to a chair. He’s used his belt to lash her to the upright spindles that make up its back and it cuts tightly into her sore ribs as she tries to twist away from his knuckles and his stink. He’s somehow tethered her ankles to her wrists and with each tug the cord bites into her skin; he must have brought it with him, she thinks fuzzily as her head droops, eyes fluttering shut. No, no, no! No sleep! No sleep! _Wake up!_ She breathes in sharply and relishes the jagged pain as it cuts through some of the cobwebs, and she lifts her chin to stare at him in nauseous contempt.

Brian’s puffed up with excited pride at her predicament and he’s strutting around like a prize cock, but following his prancing is taking far more effort than she has the energy (or inclination) for. A deep, solid ache booms in the right side of her skull and its steady grip interlaces with bright, swooping spangles of agony that race across her vision like lightning with every tilt and turn of her heavy head; she closes her eyes on the scene as she tries to regroup her senses.

There’s no denying it, she’s fucked! Her leaden mind churns sluggishly, trying to predict what he might do – is this part of his plan or is he making it up as he goes along? If he’s winging it then she might be able to talk her way out of further humiliation but if he’s got a plan then god help her because no amount of reasoning is going to get through in the state he’s in.

A strange, rapid tapping makes her open her eyes again and she sees him drawing out a line of white powder on the narrow table that doubles as her desk. Joan grimaces at the wet sound as he snorts it up through a little silver tube, and nausea takes her, acrid bile burning the back of her throat as she watches the resulting blood and snot leak from his nose. He gauges her disgusted expression for a moment and then leans in close, pushing his sweating face into hers until she’s forced to weave her throbbing head this way and that to escape the foetid moisture of his breath landing on her mouth. “Fuck off!” she hisses through the pain.

Hands clap painfully around her ears and she hears her blood surging as he squeezes her head between his palms; then fingers curl around the back of her ears and his thumbs circle the plain studs that pierce her lobes. “Don’t be like that, Joan, it’s rude.” Without warning he pinches her earlobes and yanks. She doesn’t know if he’s ripped her earrings right through the skin but it feels like it as her lobes flare white hot, and she bites her lip against the involuntary gasp of pain. His face draws close again and she feels his spittle on her lips as he laughs at her. “That’s better. I don’t like rude.”

It’s hard not to react as he gets up close and personal again and she distracts herself with a mental rendition of Schubert’s trio in E flat major as he turns her head from side to side to admire his handiwork, prodding at her face as he tests her bruises. She tries to lose herself in the rich, sonorous tones of the cello but from the corner of her eye she sees a nervousness flicker over his sweating features as his too-bright gaze falls to her chest and his fingers slide down her neck; and a spurt of chill fear grips her gut as his tongue pokes out from between his teeth – just like it always did when he was about to do something wrong.

There we go, he’s grabbing at her breast, and she’s rocked back in the chair as he squeezes hard enough to bruise. “Hey, these have grown,” he comments and slides his hand to the other one, thumbing her nipple as he adjusts his cock. The chair threatens to overturn but she thrashes against her bonds, against his touch. It works and his fingers fall away, but now he’s throttling her... “Ah, ah! Play nicely,” he threatens, stretching her neck until she chokes, “Or I might have to break your knees.” His cold blue eyes flicker intently over her face and he lets go, pushing his hand down the front of her vest; he’s watching for her anger to turn to fear but she refuses to acquiesce and his mouth tightens in annoyance as she ignores him in favour of Schubert once more. It twists into a snarl as she grits her teeth and stares woodenly ahead whilst he mauls her, pinching and scratching in an attempt to be noticed.

But by refusing to acknowledge him she’s raised the stakes and squirmy panic floods her veins as he tugs her sarong aside before yanking at her underwear. She struggles to maintain her mask as he rips them past her knees and they slip down around her ankle bindings. “Let’s have a look at the bits you weren’t showing off in that picture.” His voice is too loud, almost as if he’s trying to talk himself into doing whatever it is he’s about to do. He gropes her inner thigh trying to compel a response, and when he doesn’t get it he jams two thick fingers unceremoniously into her vagina, sharp fingernails slicing into her as he forces them past clenched muscles.

She can’t bring herself to cry in front of him, not even fake tears. And she’s certainly not going to beg; she’s not going to snivel and cringe in the hope that he’ll be satisfied and go. “Is this what Jesus would do?” she asks thinly, treating him to the deadest look she could manage. “Did he do this to Mary Magdalen, do you think?”

“Shut up, bitch,” he grunts, and he paws at her vest, exposing her breast to his vile gaze. He slaps it a couple of times – just like her dad had all those years ago – and even though the angle’s wrong she headbutts him; her forehead glancing off his mouth and tears springing to her eyes as the bridge of her nose connects painfully with his chin.

“You sick fuck!” she hisses as he recoils in shock. “I know you're a rapist but I thought you might draw the line at incest.” She fights to keep her watering eyes open as a sick-making wave of agony tears its way through her head.

“You're not my sister, remember?” he taunts, wiping blood from his mouth. “Just some worthless slut. A dyke slut at that!” His left hand wraps around her throat and he forces another finger inside, making her grunt in pain. He laughs as she tries to control her expression. “Wassa matter? Thought that’s what your sort liked – a good finger banging..?”

“You sack of shit! She had your kid you know. That girl you raped? Her name was Rae if you’re having trouble remembering.” The leer slides off his face and he stares at her with slack-jawed uncertainty. His hand stills between her thighs.

“Fuck off! It was probably some derro’s.”

Stiffly, she turns her head to meet his eyes. “Oh no,” she says coolly. “It was definitely yours. Looked just like you. It’s OK though – they’re both dead so you don’t have to worry about anybody finding out.” She can see that he’s still reeling and presses the advantage. “But of course, if there was one there’s bound to be more. I find myself asking how many other bastards you’ve sired on your victims. Do I have family I don’t know about?” She looks down at his hand and tilts her head thoughtfully as her eyes slide back to his. “Maybe you’ll give me one of my own tonight, who knows, eh?”

The punch snaps her head back and she tastes blood. She’s expecting another but instead he retreats backwards into the hall and hope surges brightly in her chest as she hears the outer door open and shut, and her thoughts are full of how to extricate herself from these bonds when Brian steps back into the room. Never let hope be your master – that’s what her father used to say. Fuck! How she hates that he was right.

“I’ve got a present for you, Joan.” Brian’s hiding something behind his back and the look on his face strikes a crystalline fear into her. He looks possessed, as if she is all that is evil in this world and he is the saviour, come to rid it of her. She swallows her horror as he reveals his gift. It’s a thin, yellow cane of lacquered bamboo. In his other hand is a roll of duct tape.

The table legs stutter, shockingly loud in the quiet room, as he drags it into the middle of the room and shoves the couch against the far wall. He punches her again, harder than before, and reality dissolves.

Consciousness threatens the calm of oblivion as dangerous hands lock around her throat and he hoists her forward, pinning her easily to the worn Formica surface as he tapes her wrists to the table legs. She kicks out woozily as he moves behind her and pulls the sarong roughly from her hips, and a searing weakness shoots down her thigh as he punches her sciatic nerve. It bites and buzzes whilst the thrrpp thrrpp sound of the tape fills the room and he binds her just below her knees, and again at her ankles to the other two legs, leaving her bottom sticking out – defenceless against the cane.

Joan blearily eyes the bite mark on his forearm as she’s gagged with more tape and hopes that it becomes infected and scars him for life. Icy darts of air jab at her sinuses as breath whistles painfully in her swollen nose, and she concentrates on keeping her airway clear and her gorge from rising as she tries to ease some of the adhesive from her lips with the tip of her tongue.

He’s hoovering up more powder, sticking the silver straw straight into the twist of foil, and he lets out a whoop of exhilaration that makes him sound like some crazed cowboy. “Whoo! Now you’re gonna get what you deserve, bitch! I’m gonna teach you to behave like a fucking lady!” He dances around in front of her, taunting her with the cane as it whooshes and whickers through the air, and she closes her eyes on his antics refusing to validate him. She only opens them again once all the shuffling and panting has stopped. He’s out of sight now but she can hear him breathing so he can’t be that far away.

Clammy hands settle on her bare waist and she tries her hardest not to flinch as he runs them over the curve of her bottom. His touch disgusts her. It’s like he’s stripping her skin and coating the raw flesh beneath with a carpet of ants. Brian fingers the scars that shine in an erratic ladder from mid-thigh to coccyx and she holds her breath, fearful of more. “The old man did a good job, didn’t he? Looks like he set the bar high, though.” He taps one of them with the cane and she tenses further. “Hope I can measure up. You will tell me if I don’t, won’t you? Oh, that’s right, you can’t…” He snickers to himself and checks the tape on her mouth then begins.

Black and red snow swirls behind screwed up eyes. Her fingernails bend and crack as they dig into the varnished wood of the table legs and white hot fire rains down on her. “Bitch! Filthy bitch!” In is fury his carefully cultivated accent flies out of the window and he sounds just like the spoilt brat he’s always been as he rages and whines and pouts. Brian slices at her with the cane; heavy, erratic slashes that land without care or precision; and she can feel every ounce of his capricious arrogance and his pride and his lunacy. Yet she thanks her lucky stars because she knows that if her were sober, it would be far worse. He’ll wear himself out soon enough – the coke won’t be able to sustain him for too long.

“Whore!” He catches her just above the back of her knees and the tape tears at her lips as she screams, the shrill sound reverberating through her bruised nose as it escapes into the hot room. He obviously likes that noise and he lashes her again, making her ribs shriek in sympathy as she absorbs the blow. She focuses on a chip in the tabletop, pouring her pain into the exposed crescent of wood as her teeth clench behind her gag but she can’t block it all out and she wonders if she should let all of it back in and see if it won’t render her unconscious like it did when her father took to her with the training foil. But as predicted he’s too wasted to pace himself adequately and after a minute or two’s further frenzy, his arm falls abruptly to his side; but not before he’s managed to hit her so hard that the cane splintered and sliced her open like a knife.

Brian doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself now and his footsteps disappear into the hallway behind her. Joan hears water running in the bathroom and then his shuffling steps take him into the kitchen as he interrogates the contents of her fridge. The icebox door thuds dully and then a metallic scraping reaches her ears as he unscrews the cap from the vodka bottle, followed by a brief gurgling ‘glug’ as he pours a shot and downs it. She can only wait to see what he does next; she wonders if he even knows himself. Could this be the prelude to the end or is he just getting his wind back before he starts all over again? The uncertainty is almost as bad as the pain, and it whittles itself a hollow place low in her throat where it waits, beating sickly like an infected tooth.

A couple more drinks and Brian’s feeling better, more focused. He wants to fuck her now; he always fucks them – it’s part of the game. Deviant bitch! She really needs to be shown how it’s done properly. Joan lies like a corpse, unresponsive and unflinching as once more he pushes his fingers into her dry cunt; he pulls at his cock but it won’t get hard and he curses her. He hates her. She always tried to make him feel bad, always gave him a hard time; always had that superior look on her ugly face… He slaps a bloodied buttock making her flinch dully but she doesn’t cry out, and he slaps her again and again, his open hand curling into a fist. But he might as well be hitting a side of beef for all the response he gets from her. They’re no fun when they get like this, and he stamps his foot like a petulant child because Joan’s spoiling it for him.

Useless slag; she’s completely killed his buzz and he wants more coke; but when he pulls it out of his pocket he’s dismayed to see nothing more than a thin coating clinging to the inside of the foil wrap. He needs more. He knows a guy but that means going back into town… 

She feels hair pulled from her scalp and he roughly yanks her head from the table and waves her own paring knife in front of her face. She refuses to look at him or the knife, but that doesn’t mean that she’s not listening.

“Now, in a minute I’m going to cut the tape on your wrists. Don’t think that I’m doing it for you though, I’d love to see you have to be rescued by your neighbours – all wizened and delirious – and then watch you try and explain what happened. But then the Police might get involved and we don’t want that now, do we? Eh? Because I don’t think that you’d come out of it too well, _sister_ dearest, after all, you're a _per-vert_ , it’s my duty to thrash it out of you.” The razor sharp blade traces the shape of her lips through the tape and his shiny, blotchy face twists into an evil grin. “And now that I know where you are – and your Brisbane address – I can pop round anytime I like and make sure it doesn’t return, can’t I? I might even get reacquainted with Maggie again, too… What d’you think about that?” Joan can’t help but look at him then and, almost lovingly, he runs the blade down her cheek as her nostrils flare in loathing, pleased that this final threat gets a reaction from her. “Yeah,” he gloats, pushing is face into hers, “Just you think about that before you start shooting your mouth off! Now, you just stay there until I‘m gone, there’s a good girl.”

The dull, red tabletop slams into her battered face and he slides the blade between her wrist and the tape.

Oh, thank god, he’s gone! A bright tingle runs through her, as if every part of her is sobbing with relief, but caution makes her count 180 fraught seconds before she even tries to free her hands. Her shoulders burn as she draws her arms beneath her and, with swollen fingers, she peels away the tape from her mouth; it’s bloody from where he made her scream. Deep, shuddering gasps wrack her nearly naked body as the enormity of her ordeal surges from its cage, and heavy tears run down her face as she straightens up; tears of pain, and shock, and sheer, naked relief. It takes a long time to peel the tape from her legs because the pain is simply breath-taking, eclipsing even the white-hot spike that stabs above her right ear; every bend of her knees, every pull on her bruised and broken skin creates a cascade of torment and there’s moment when she’s sure she’s going to pass out as her vision greys and she slumps forward over the worn tabletop.

It takes her another eternity to hobble into the bathroom. Each stumbling step jars the angry welts and her visions narrows again, making her thankful for the apartment’s compact dimensions as she clings to the wall, but finally – sweating and shaking – she makes it. Glassy eyed, she swallows a handful of aspirin and cups her hands under the running tap, drinking the lukewarm water from the well of her palms to wash them down with. But beneath the suffocating cloak of pain lies another sensation – a scratchy itch in her vagina from where he violated her – and, numbly, she runs a washer under the tap, heedless of the water pooling around her bare feet as she scrubs away the filth from between her legs.

The sound of the gunshot makes her knees buckle in terror and she thinks it’s Brian, returned to finish the job; and then the night erupts into a cacophony of fireworks as the old year slides into the new. The joyous sound reverberates in her skull and she hangs onto the sink, weak and retching as her headache tries to keep pace with the celebrations.


	6. Chapter 6

She’s a real mess – he certainly knows how to leave his mark. Bright blood fills the white of her right eye making her look like a Christopher Lee vampire or something, and a nasty scarlet and navy welt extends from the outer socket into her hairline; it hurts to touch, it hurts to even look at it… Dried blood crusts her swollen nose – its colour matching the dark crescents that nestle beneath her eyes. Her lips are cracked from the tape, split and bruised from his fist, and she probes her cheek with her tongue, making the patchwork of scrapes and bruises ripple as she traces the tender furrows sliced open by her own teeth. Teeth that she grits when she gingerly slides her nails between the gold studs and the sore flesh of her earlobes; they glow cherry red and just as hot beneath her fingertips as she breaks the seal of congealed blood and eases the metal out of the raw wounds with a hiss.

Curiosity makes her lift her singlet to reveal the contusions on her ribs but really, it feels like more effort than it’s worth. They bloom like an ill-judged posy of peonies across her skin, their centres already an ugly blue-black colour that screams shrilly when she touches one. Her weary gaze skates over the scratches on her breasts – trying not to recall what they preceded; yet her lip still curls in disgust, and she hunches over the sink, dry heaving, wishing to god that she had something to bring up other than burning bile.

Tears drip into the basin. They won’t stop. They stream down her cheeks. They blur her vision as she limps into her bedroom. They bathe her swollen mouth as she fumbles for the phone, salty on her sour tongue when she lowers herself to be bed with a fractured cry of torment.

“Hello?” Maggie's voice is warm and heavy with sleep and Joan can’t find the words she wants to say. She just wants Maggie there with her, to have her kiss her and tell her it’s going to be alright. “Hello?” Maggie catches the disconcerting echo of her own voice and she knows that this is an international call. “Joan? Is that you?” Her heart beats faster as she detects ragged breathing and she’s instantly 100% awake. “Joan? Joan, answer me…!” she commands.

“Maggie…” she sobs. “Maggie… Oh, fuuuck…”

Maggie freezes, her blood suddenly replaced by distilled fear. “Joan, what is it? What’s happened? Tell me!” Her fingers wind themselves tightly into the blanket as she listens to her precious girl break down.

“It was aw-awful. H-he beat muh-me up…” she manages between hiccoughing breaths.

“Who did? Joan! Who beat you up?”

“He whipped me. He whu-whipped me and it hurts so-o-o muuuch!”

“Joan, what’s going on?” she demands, bewildered. “Have you had a bad dream? Your father’s dead! He can’t hurt you anymore.” Joan has bad dreams. Nightmares. Terrors. Yet for all the times that Maggie's cradled her in her arms and soothed away the nameless horrors, Joan has never been able to remember a single one.

“No, no, no, not Dad.”

“Who then?” Her fear is tempered by a flame of anger.

“Him. Brian.”

Her brother? But he’s been out of the picture for years. “The fuck? Are you alright? What do you need? What happened, Joan?”

“He, he’s here. In Singapore. I saw him.”

“I don’t understand, Love. What’s he doing out there?”

“He de-destroyed the flat. And then he came round to… to teach me a lesson for causing Dad’s stroke.” She draws in a loud, wavering breath as she tries to suppress a sob. “And for loving you. I tried to get away but he wuh-wouldn’t let me. He knocked me out. H-he tied me up and beat me; juh-just like that poor guh-girl. Oh my god…” she moans and the sound of her crying scrapes at Maggie's soul. She can’t bear to hear the pain in those sobs and all she wants to do is reach down the phoneline and kiss her and hold her tight.

Maggie knows about Rae. Joan had told her the shocking story after she’d foolishly suggested reaching out to her brother following the funeral. She also knows that Joan suspects him of other attacks although she has no solid proof; after all, even if the girls did report it, their cases were hardly newsworthy…

She doesn’t want to ask this question – it breaks her heart to – but she knows she has to. “Did he touch you too?” Joan can only cry desperately. “Did he rape you Joan? It’s important, I need to know. _Please_ …” she pulls at her hair in anguish as she listens to Joan try and control her sobs. “ _Please_ ,” she begs tearfully. She’s beside herself as she stares up at the ceiling, biting her lips and praying for Joan to have been spared that indignity.

“No,” she whispers at last. “He didn’t actually… rape me. He couldn’t manage it.”

“But he touched you. Oh my god! Oh, Joan, my sweetest, most darling girl!” Anger thrashes in Maggie’s chest like a caged tiger and she hugs her knees, rocking, ashen faced and she tries to soothe her beloved whilst in her heart she rages.

_I’ll hunt him down and gut him like a pig!_

She’s veered from the sickest fear imaginable through heartrending shock, and disgust, and wonderment at the sheer evil in some people, and now she’s incandescent with rage; her head filled with thoughts of extreme violence, her body vibrating with fury.

_Cunt! Utter cunt! I’ll fucking flay him alive!_

That someone would do this to his own sister is bad enough, but when that sister was the one person that she loved more than life itself then there had to be serious retribution.

_I’ll cut his balls off and feed them to him! I’ll burn his fucking eyes out – bastard!_

She would give anything to trade places with Joan right now, she would pay any amount of money to have her untouched; and she would do anything, everything in her power to make Brian answer for what he’s done.

“He’s going to pay for this, Joan. No-one hurts you like that and gets away with it. I promise you, _no-one!_ ”

The savage, penetrating throb in her head booms like cannon fire, making her throat constrict as it sends a pendulum of pain slicing behind her eyes, and as Joan winces Maggie suddenly remembers the state she must be in – she’s been so consumed with anger and vengeance that she’d almost forgotten – and a grimace crosses her face at her thoughtlessness. “Joan, my Darling, I want you to go to hospital and get yourself checked out. You’ve probably got concussion and you could have internal bleeding or even a fractured skull after what he’s done to you.”

“I don’t need to go to hospital, Maggie. I’ll be OK in a couple of days.”

So typical of Joan, she thinks; her leg could be hanging off and she’d say she was alright, but at least she’s sounding calmer. Her thoughts turn to Lau. “OK, if you won’t go then I’m going to arrange a nurse for you.”

“I don’t need a nurse.” She sniffs away her tears and, in defiance of her protestation, bright pain arcs through her as she coughs on the oyster of blood and snot, making her cling to the mattress until she can open her eyes again.

“You do, and you’re having one.” Maggie fights to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Please, Joan, humour me, eh? I love you and I’m not about to have you die on me, not yet. Anyway, it won’t be for long, I’m going to take the next flight out and look after you until you’re better.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? You’re hurt and you’re on your own – of course I’m going to come!”

“No. I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to waste your money or your holidays coming out here when I’ll be home soon enough. I want that time to spend with you at home, when we can enjoy it together.”

“But, Joan…”

She tries to placate her. “Of course, I want you here with me – I want you here with me every single day – but…”

“…Then let me come.”

“No.”

“Bloody hell, Joan…” Maggie lights a cigarette and puffs out her cheeks in dismay at her stubbornness.

“You’ll report it, though, won’t you Joan? Make sure he’s kicked out of Singapore?”

“What’s the point? It’s my word against his, isn’t it? Even if the police investigate, what can they do? There’s no witnesses and he’s sure to have a cast iron alibi.” How many women had said the same thing after an encounter with Brian, she wonders?

“So then, report it to the Commission. Have him removed that way. They won’t stand for that kind of attack against one of their own…”

“I can’t Maggie. I can’t face their pity.”

“And you don’t want them to talk to Brian because you don’t want them to know about me…” She can’t see how Joan's face crumples at this accusation but the girl's sharp intake of breath spreads a prickle of guilt over her skin and she realises that she’s taking her anger out on the wrong person. “I’m sorry, Joan,” she apologises quickly.

“No. No it’s not that at all… I don’t care if they know. Maggie…” Her voice grows smaller. “He, he’s threatening to tell the police back home that I murdered Dad.”

“Well, you did, didn’t you?” Joan’s quiet for a long time.

Murder. Why do the biggest secrets in her life seem to revolve around killing? Nils stabbing that poker guy, her father strangling her mother, her asphyxiating her father… This isn’t how normal people live. But then, she wasn’t raised in a normal family was she? But Maggie was.

Any normal person should be appalled at finding out their lover is a murderer but then again, despite her background, Maggie accepts human nature much more readily, and with much less squeamishness than most – a possible reason why her father chose her as his aide all those years ago…

“How… How do you... I, I… Yes,” she finally admits in a defeated tone. “How did you find out?”

“Oh, Love, knowing the both of you as I do – or did, and from what you said when I came back to Townsville and your reaction when I called it an accident, it didn’t take much to put two and two together. You did the right thing, my Darling.”

“Why did you never say anything?”

“It wasn’t necessary, Love. I knew you’d tell me in your own time. But Brian’s forced your hand, hasn’t he?”

“It doesn’t worry you that I killed someone? It worries me.” Even though she knows that her reasons for such a heinous act were totally justified, the fact that she had been capable of it once sometimes makes her wonder if, given the right circumstances, she might do it again. She’s certainly been giving it some thought in regards to Brian in the last few hours.

“Why should it? The world’s a better place without the likes of him in it. That’s why you did it, isn’t it? So that you could be part of this world? Where do you think you’d be today if you hadn’t, eh? A prisoner in your own home, that’s where.” She’d hated the Major almost as much as Joan had; and she loves his daughter more than he ever did. She knows that she will never need to fear Joan.

“I know, but what if they believe him?”

Maggie tries to reassure her. “Now look, Joan. If there had been any suggestion of foul play then the police would’ve have taken you in for questioning, wouldn’t they? And I don’t think that Brian would relish having his name dragged through the papers; I bet he has a few skeletons he’d like to keep hidden.”

“Even if he doesn’t report me, he’s threatened to find me out and do it again. Whenever he feels like it. He said he’d find you, too. I’m scared Maggie, I think he’d do it too.”

Did he now? “He can try if he likes,” she growls. “I think this needs to be nipped in the bud, before he gets too big for his boots. If you want, I know some people; they’ll handle Brian for you before he flies home. It won’t be pretty but it’ll be effective. Are you interested?”

It’s a relief that Maggie knows about her father. Being able to share the dark secret makes it easier to accept her offer. She knows that Maggie's work takes her into some dubious areas of the security sector but they’ve never actually discussed what she does, or for whom; maybe now they will.

And Brian’s dangerous. He’s a threat to her, to Maggie… To every woman he meets. He needs to be made safe. Neutered. She wonders again if, given the need, she could kill Brian; would she quail at the crucial moment or would she hold her nerve and dispense some very necessary justice for the good of women everywhere? And whilst she may never get to find out, it’s her dearest wish that Brian be punished – not just for tonight, but for all those other nights too that have left women broken, bloody and abased – but she never dreamed that the opportunity would present itself so readily.

“You bet I am,” she mutters vehemently.

“Now, you don’t have to, but if you feel like you want to be there when they ‘speak’ to him, you can be.”

“Give it to me, Maggie.” She hears the turning of pages as Maggie flips through her address book and memorises the number she reads out.

“Wait until the morning and then call it. In the meantime, I’m going to sort out that nurse and I don’t want you to move until she gets there. Is that clear?”

“Yes. Maggie?”

“What, my Darling?”

“I love you.”

“And I love you, Joan. For ever and ever.”

“Amen.”  
  


Forty-five minutes later, the door (unlocked since Brian’s departure) opens and Joan hears soft footsteps approach. Squinting up at the slight woman as she waits to be invited into her bedroom, she can see that she carries with her a large satchel and an equally large tool box. “Hullo,” she says thickly, “I’m Joan.”

The woman nods and crosses to the bed, kneeling to make her introductions. “You can call me Tsung.” She judges the woman to be in her forties, maybe even older, but there’s no hint of grey in her glossy black hair, and there’s a hardness to her delicate bone structure that softens when she smiles in greeting. And then she’s gone again, leaving Joan with an impression of poise and efficiency. She hears her washing her hands in the bathroom and then watches as she returns and opens to toolbox, snapping on a pair of latex gloves before laying out her equipment on a green surgical drape.

“What caused this?” asks Tsung leaning over to look at Joan's bottom. She winces silently as she spies a sliver of wood sticking out like an obscene whisker, and deftly plucks it away.

“A bamboo cane. It split.”

“I can see. Now, this will hurt but it has to be done.” She rolls Joan onto her back, sympathising as her patient cries out, stroking her sweating brow as her snorts and gasps slowly subside. Pressing her gloved fingers into Joan’s belly she checks for tell-tale tender spots and suspicious swelling.

“Do you work for an agency?” asks Joan from between gritted teeth. The woman certainly looks the part with her white tunic and portable hospital.

“An agency?” The woman considers the word for a second or two as she gathers the grubby singlet beneath Joan's armpits and eases it over her head to examine her colourful ribcage. “Yes, I suppose it might be called that.” As she takes Joan’s vitals, Tsung’s attention is drawn to the lump above her ear and she explores it gently as Joan pulls away in pain. “Have you felt sick or sleepy? Yes, I know it’s late, but more tired than usual?” She watches with professional detachment as Joan nods groggily and winces as the movement causes a sharp pain in her sinuses that makes her raise her hand protectively to her nose. “It doesn’t look broken, but you can never tell,” she says and captures Joan's hot face in her cool hands, efficiently probing her nose and cheekbones with gentle thumbs. It’s a relief when she stops touching her sore face and tests her reflexes instead. “I think you’ll be alright, but you have a concussion. I know it hurts but I’m sorry, it’s not safe to give you any pain killers.”

Tsung feeds her antibiotics and cleans up her cuts then gives her two instant ice packs – one for your face and one for your head she tell her – before massaging a pungent ointment into her skin; her small hands rubbing away some of the soreness that lies beneath Joan’s lumps and bumps until, at last, she’s allowed to roll onto her front and take the pressure off her poor backside.

But the respite is short-lived; without the buffer of analgesia her nerves scream as Tsung eases out the splinters and cleans her wounds, and her hazy mind retreats to the familiar surroundings of a fencing studio. It soothes her to imagine delivering a corresponding blow to her opponent’s chest for every raw stripe that flares under Tsung’s delicate touch. No blood bursts from her slashes but she can see the fresh meat of the wound beneath his gaping tunic, the flesh twisting and twitching as he retreats from her blade. Blue eyes glint fearfully behind the mask; it’s her father, it’s Brian, it’s both of them – it doesn’t really matter, cast from the same mould as they are.

“So, what happened?” asks the nurse as she tapes split skin together.

Joan opens her eyes and breathes through a wave of nausea. “My brother happened,” she answers dully.

She pauses and stares at Joan, eyes wide in surprise. “Your brother did this to you? He is a very disturbed person to do this.”

“Yes, he is. But don’t worry. He’s not going to get away with it.”

“Good. That is a good attitude to have, Joan. Keep hold of it.”

Tsung stays with her all night, rousing her periodically from fitful sleep to conduct obs and, each time she does, pain assaults Joan's senses and she grumbles uncharitably. When morning finally comes it feels as if she’s been trampled by a herd of brumbies.

It’s humiliating to have to be helped to the toilet but she’s still dizzy, and so stiff, so sore that she’s forced to admit defeat and permit this small woman’s politely disinterested assistance. At least she’s afforded the courtesy of using it behind a closed door. This must have been how Dad felt after his stroke she thinks as Tsung returns and she’s washed and dried. She winces as the woman’s touch reveal new bruises from last night – it feels like if she can name it, then it’s damaged. More pain comes as Tsung reapplies the sharp smelling ointment to her ribs and limbs but she’s forced to admit that she feel heaps better once it begins to do its job.

When Tsung runs down to the hawker centre for breakfast, Joan makes the phone call. The man who answers tells her the day after tomorrow. She will be collected from her apartment before dawn. Be ready.


	7. Chapter 7

Flexing her shoulders, Joan luxuriates in the steady, reviving jet of the shower; after what seems like an eternity of reduced mobility (and just being wiped down with a washer) it’s almost a novelty to be able to sluice away the filth on her own. Her battered body is a patchwork of purple and blue, of green and yellow and dirty brown, and it grumbles as she stretches gently under the warm water but it’s a relief to be able to move freely again and she knows that she has Tsung (and the relief nurse, Tan) to thank for that. Today she’s been permitted a cocktail of paracetamol and ibuprofen – despite her lingering concussion – but it can only go so far in deadening the persistent throb that penetrates the meat of her buttocks and thighs, and she touches one of the puce-coloured welts, testing it. The brilliant flare mellows into a deeper, almost warm ache that borders on the strangely pleasant – but not so pleasant that she wants to do it again. One or two will need new tape, but in the main, she’s healing well and, again, she knows that she has Tsung – and Maggie – to thank for her wellbeing.

As promised, the knock on her door comes with the first calls of the birds; nerves flutter low in her throat but she’s ready. Her escort, Huang, stands a head shorter than Joan but what he lacks in height he makes up for in muscle – not that she really cares. He looks like a hood trying to look respectable she thinks with a trace of amusement, but he’s professional enough – his eyes barely flickering as he takes in the state of her face and bruised arms – and he shows her every courtesy as he helps her into waiting car and they drive west to the coast. The concussion still makes her nauseous and she nearly has him pull over as they negotiate a series of turns but she fights through it and focuses on shifting her weight from one buttock to the other as she regrets not bringing a cushion. Thankfully, she can stand on the boat ride across to the mainland. Huang stays with her, giving her space when she feels queasy, telling her to concentrate on the clusters of lights twinkling along the approaching shoreline as the little boat bounces along under the lightening sky.

Presently the captain guides them into an inlet and they glide up a silky green ribbon bordered by dense forest, and it puts her in mind of Conrad’s _Heart of Darkness_ as the putter along in the gloom. Whoever these people are, she admires their organisational skills as they land at a small jetty somewhere up river and she climbs into the waiting jeep.

Gus Van Den Heen, ex-Dutch Special Forces, former MOSSAD agent and now freelance ‘intelligence operative’ assesses the tall young woman as she works out how best to sit down next to him. “Wait a moment, I have something for you.” He reaches into the back and holds out a square of thick foam rubber. “Here, you might find this helps.” Silently, she takes it and carefully lowers herself into the broad seat with a grateful smile.

“So, Joan, I’m Gus. I’ll be the master of ceremonies today.” He holds out his hand and, when she takes it, his quick eyes note the scuffed knuckles, broken fingernails and the ligature mark encircling her slender wrist. “Now, I don’t want to know who you are or where you’re from. All of this operates on a need to know basis and I don’t need to know; but what I do want is more information on what this man did to you. I’ve been provided with the basics but they don’t really give me much to go on.” He pauses as she takes a deep breath and looks down at her lap. “Can you do that for me, Joan?” His voice is deep yet mellow and there’s something about its warmth that makes her want to trust him.

He looks like a veteran surfie in his patterned sarong and faded Hawaiian shirt, and his creased brown eyes twinkle kindly above a bushy blond beard but she knows that Gus can’t be all that kind if he’s been chosen to exact retribution on Brian. But he’s being kind to her, and if she wants him to help her then she has to help him to do it.

As they trundle slowly along the wide track she recounts Brian’s accusations. She tells him about Rae and the voyeurism and the sexual aggression of his youth. A look of disdain twists Gus’ face. She tells him about the dead animals. His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as she woodenly lists her ordeal until, at last, there’s nothing left to say. He absorbs the information without pity and for that she’s immensely grateful.

The rusting warehouse is long and low and smells of earth and vegetables. The climbing sun filters through yellowed Perspex windows set high under the shallow eaves and it fills the interior with a soft golden light that dusts them like pollen as Gus leads her over to the far end where, screened off by a row of crates stacked three or four high, a large square of plastic sheeting covers the worn wooden floor; sitting in its centre is a chair, but not any old chair – it looks like the sort of contraption you’d find on some nightmarish horror movie. Beside it stands a wheeled trolley, and laid out on its scratched top are a spirit burner, a roll of duct tape and a kidney bowl containing a small brown bottle and a syringe; something bulky sits shrouded on the shelf beneath. A sick feeling roils in the pit of her stomach as the reality of what she wants sets in – she can still recall her father’s chilling boasts of interrogation and torture – but this is what she’s asked for, and this is what Brian deserves… She’s determined to see it through.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Gus’ voice. “What do you want from me today, Joan? What is your desired outcome? There’s nothing you can say that will shock me, nothing you ask out of bounds.”

She’s given this a lot of thought. Primarily she wants revenge; pure, unadulterated revenge for what he’s done to her – not just over here, but all through her time at home as well – there’s a dark creature in her soul that clamours to feed on his humiliation and it will not be denied. But she’s conscious of doing this for the greater good, too. That her father had spread his hate on this earth was damaging enough; she won’t allow Brian to continue his legacy. And if she doesn’t make sure that he’s stopped then who will? The flapping of this butterfly’s wings won’t solve all of the world’s problems, she knows that, but it’ll make life a hell of a lot safer for some of its population in the future.

“I want him to know true terror,” she tells him in an even voice. “I want him to know real pain. I want him to think that he’s going to die. And I want him to be sorry – honest to god sorry – for what he’s done to me and that girl – and any others. I don’t ever want him to bother me, or anyone I know ever again. But I don’t want him to die. Mark him, maim him if you like, but I want him to live with his shame for the rest of his life. I want him miserable.” Gus nods sagely and beckons for her to come with him.

Obediently, she follows him behind the crates and into a small office where they sit at the worn metal desk and drink chai – strong and pale and thick with condensed milk – as Gus breakfasts on steamed yam cakes. Apprehension makes her guts churn even as hunger gnaws at her belly. “Want some?” he asks, pushing the bamboo basket towards her as her stomach growls like fighting cats. Joan shakes her head. “Hey,” he smiles, and almost pats her knee before catching himself, “It’s gonna be alright, Joan.” She smiles weakly and lights a cigarette. When he’s finished, Gus gives the nod to a wiry old man who appears, as if from nowhere, at the open doorway.

“Who’s he?” she asks.

“Chen. He’ll be assisting me.”

The slam of van doors and a commotion at the back of the warehouse makes her sit forward nervously; they’re bringing Brian in. As they pass the office she sees that he’s naked, fish-belly white and turning to fat over his muscle. His wrists secured behind him, he’s blindfolded as two young men in overalls hustle him along. Cautiously, she moves to the doorway and watches from the cover of the office as they haul him behind the wall of crates. Even under guard, the sight of him unsettles her.

Gus joins her. “Right then, let’s get on with it. Are you going to watch?”

She’s thought a lot about this, too. She knows herself well enough to know that for her own peace of mind she has to be there when he’s broken. She needs to see him suffer as he answers to his crimes. But she has no idea how she’ll react when it actually happens. With a hesitant flicker of her eyes, she nods and they step out into the main building.

Gus jerks his head towards Chen who darts into the office and returns carrying the chairs. “I don’t want him to know that you’re here yet,” he informs her in a whisper, “So I want you to remain silent until I invite you to join us. You can move about if you need to, but do it quietly, is that understood?” Joan nods again and side by side they cross the warehouse floor.

One chair faces Brian, hers (with its extra padding) sits behind him and to one side. Like a man awaiting electrocution, he’s strapped into the wooden contraption, and she’s glad that the large, curved headrest confines his vision to dead ahead; from where she stands she has a limited view of the side of his dirty neck and a portion of his forearm and calf but that’s about it. As she stares at Brian the old man appears silently at her side, a folding table in one hand and a small tray with more chai and an ashtray balanced in the other. Her handbag swings from his shoulder as he sets them down, inviting Joan to sit with smile and an elegant little flick of his hand. She smiles her thanks and performs a little hand gesture of her own to indicate that she’d rather not, and mimes rubbing her bruised bottom for explanation.

Gus takes one of the steaming glasses and skirts the plastic sheeting to stand in front of Brian. Moving his own chair out of spitting range, he begins.


	8. Chapter 8

“Hello, Brian.” Brian’s head turns towards his voice. A rush of excitement makes Joan’s skin prickle and she grips the back of her chair as if she’s on a rollercoaster about to crest a sheer drop. “I suppose you're wondering what all this is about, hey? Wondering why we’ve held you against your will like this? Can you think of anything that you might have done that could have brought you to us today?”

A guiltless man would take this chance to declare his innocence but Brian remains silent, and when Gus steps forward and removes his blindfold he snarls, lunging towards him, teeth bared as he comes up short against the buckled leather bands. Gus smiles genially in return and settles himself in his seat. “Now, Brian, I’m going to talk to you, and you're going to listen. And I’ll be asking you some questions along the way so I want you to pay attention and be truthful in your answers. Now, some of them I know you won’t want to give so I may have to press you a little bit, but don’t worry, it won’t be more than I have to.” Taking a quick sip of chai, Gus claps his hands and rubs them together in anticipation of his task. “OK then, let’s get on with it.”

“So, I understand that you work for Austrade.” Brian pulls a face as if it’s common knowledge. “And do you enjoy your work?” He shrugs noncommittally. “But you must enjoy travelling to new places? It’s a good thing that you’re not racist, isn’t it? You’re _not_ racist, are you? No? That’s lucky! You must be having the time of your life; all those new things to see and do, meeting new people. All those exotic women... Do you like women, Brian?”

“Of course I do, I’m not fucking queer!”

This causes Gus to chuckle softly and shake his head. “That’s not quite what I meant. Do you like being in their company? Do you value their opinion, can you relate to them?”

“What’s there to relate to?” Gus files this away with a considered look and moves on.

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Is it something you see for yourself, though? A wife and a family?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“But she’d have to be someone very special to make the grade, wouldn’t she? A good little woman that doesn’t ask questions, ready to greet you home from work with a kiss, your dinner waiting for you on the table? And of course, she’d have to do as she told, and when she’s told too, eh?” He scrubs his hand through is beard thoughtfully. “Yes, you look like the kind of guy that needs an obedient and attentive wife.”

Brian pouts sullenly.

“Would you consider yourself a decent person, Brian? You know, the sort of guy people like?”

“Yes.”

“And would you say that you treat others in the same way that you want to be treated? Are you fair with them?”

“Yes.”

“All time?”

“I try, but I can’t like everybody can I? What the fuck is this all about?”

Gus takes a slow sip from his glass and sits forward, elbows resting on his knees as he shows his teeth in a shark-like grin. “All in good time. Now, you say that you’re a great guy, yes?” He echoes Brian’s nod. “And what about women, are you still a great guy when it comes to them?”

“Yes.” A muscle twitches in Joan's cheek and it pulls her lip into a snarl of disgust at Brian’s answer.

“And you don’t treat the pretty ones differently to the less fortunate?” Brian eyes him with mistrust. “Yes, I know, sometimes it can’t be helped – a beautiful woman will do strange things to us – but I mean, you're not cruel to them on purpose are you? You're not the kind of guy to hurt a woman for sport, is what I’m trying to say.”

“What’s all this about? What do you want?”

“Just chatting. I’m a friendly guy, Brian, I just want to know more about you. So, come on, answer me – are you the kind of man that would hurt a woman for sport?”

“No, of course not!”

Gus’ lips purse beneath his beard and, as he sits back in his seat, all trace of the friendly surfie disappears. “I think that you’re lying to me, Brian. I think that you’re just telling me what you think I want to hear. Am I right?” Brian grunts dismissively. “After all, no-one’s _that_ nice,” comments Gus conversationally as he stands up and approaches Brian. He clicks his fingers and Chen hurries over to light the spirit burner. Its ring of flame is almost invisible in the morning light but it leaves a trail of wavering air as he crouches beside Brian and places it beneath the chair Brian grows wide eyed in alarm as the flames heat the thin metal plates that serve as his seat, and Gus grins encouragingly as he begins to shift uncomfortably.

“What do you want? What d’you fucking want?” Brian starts shrieking as his delicate skin begins to singe.

It had hurt her to see Rae hurt. It had hurt her to hear the anguish in Maggie’s voice. But she finds no such discomfort as she listens to Brian’s lament. She wouldn’t go as far as to call what she’s feeling at the moment satisfaction exactly, but she’s aware of her facial muscles tightening as a faint smile of approval pulls at her mouth.

Brian’s noise quietens down as Chen withdraws the burner and sits back on his haunches. “You fucking bastard, I’ll see you pay for this,” he grunts at length.

“That was just a little demonstration of what will happen if you lie to me again. I told you, Brian, I want to get to know you. I want to know what goes on in here.” He taps his own forehead and flashes a friendly grin, and returns to his seat. “So, when I described the type of woman I see as your wife, was I correct?”

“Yes,” he agrees reluctantly.

“But you like the other kind too, don’t you? The ones that flirt with you, the ones that like to play?”

“If it’s there, I’ll take it.” His tone is almost defiant. “Why not?”

“And do you show them the same respect to them as you do to the sweet little Mary-Annes you meet at church?”

“What do you think? They don’t know what respect is!”

“No, I think they do.”

Brian sneers – he can’t help himself. “You can’t have respect for a slag that gives it away for the price of a dinner or a few drinks. They don’t want a man for a husband – they just want what’s in his bank account!”

“What’s happened to you in your life to make you feel this way? Did you love your mother, Brian?”

“That fucking bitch?! She couldn’t wait to fuck off!” Joan bites her lip. She too, had believed their father’s doctrine that their mother had abandoned them all.

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

“Why do you think she left you?”

“I don’t fucking care!”

“But you must have loved her. We all love our parents when we’re small.”

“No! I’ve no time for whores like that!”

“A whore? Was your mother a prostitute? Really?”

“What else do you call a woman that takes all she can from a man and then fucks off and leaves her family behind when it gets too boring?”

“Perhaps I’d call her a woman at the end of her tether.”

“If she’d loved us she’d have stayed.”

“With your father and you?”

“Yes! With my fucking father and me!”

“But it hasn’t caused you to treat women badly as a result?”

“Of course not! They’re just too fucking sensitive for their own good. A slap or two never hurt no-one!”

With a look to Gus, Chen reaches beneath the chair and removes a plate from the centre of the metal seat. The effect of naked flame beneath naked testicles is immediate and the still air of the warehouse rings with screeches of alarm.

A dark smile lights Joan's face as he screams and slobbers amidst the smell of burning hair.

Once the subject’s breathing is somewhere near normal again, Gus continues. “So, you still can’t think of a reason for us meeting like this, no?” Brian’s expression belies his silent denial; Chen looks to Gus once more and slides the burner back beneath Brian’s seat. He’s barely had chance to recover from the last bout and he howls and thrashes, flinging out threats and curses cut short as he bellows in pain. Gus nods again and the burner is removed. It takes a number of seconds for Brian to stop shouting and quite a few more to regain control of himself. He bares his teeth at Gus and waits.

“What about a little visit you paid to Kallang Junction? Ring any bells?”

His eyes widen in shock then narrow as hatred consumes him. “This is Joan's doing? I fucking warned her…!” he roars. Despite his injuries he pulls against his restraints as he curses her very existence.

Joan lets herself feel that burgeoning sense of satisfaction now. Until this moment, Brian could have been answering for any one of his attacks – for all she knows there’s another woman back in Singapore right now who’s wishing she’d never laid eyes on him either – but hearing the outrage in his voice as he learns that it’s her fills her with a malicious glee and cruel laughter bubbles up in her throat.

“No, no. It’s _your_ doing, Brian. _Your_ actions have made it necessary. We can’t have someone like you running loose and hurting our friends, can we? It’s just not on.”

“No, I know she’s behind this alright. She’s a bitch! A fucken _disease!_ I’ll kill her for this…” he rants.

“No, Brian. Joan's done nothing wrong. It’s you that’s been badly behaved.”

“Always running after Dad, brown nosing…”

“You begrudge her your father’s affection?”

“He didn’t even like her. She’s warped!”

“That’s no way to talk about a lady.”

“She’s no lady! Parading herself in that picture for all to see. It’s disgusting!”

“So you thought that you’d go ‘round and teach her a lesson.”

“No! It wasn’t like that! She provoked me!”

Gus notes how Brian’s eyes flick sideways to Chen. With a sigh, he gets to his feet and selects the tape from the trolley. He’s expressionless as he tears off thin strips and seals the subject’s nostrils, he’s equally expressionless as he punches him in the gut.

As he wheezes, Gus moves in and Brian’s eyes widen, trying to pull his head away as fingers grip the back of his sweaty neck and a large hand settles over his mouth, sealing it shut, smothering him until his chest begins to ache, until it locks, until his eyes roll wildly and panic sets in.

Joan wishes that she could see what’s going on; she heard the rip of tape and saw Brian struggling, and now there’s a gasping, choking sound as Gus stands back, wiping his palm on his hip.

“Don’t lie to me, Brian. Why should you care so much about what Joan does? You have your life, she has hers.”

“She ruined my life!”

Gus chuckles coldly. “You seem to be doing OK for yourself. Well, up until now, that is.”

“She destroyed Dad; he was never the same. She took him away from me. She fucken killed him!”

“So you ‘punished’ her for it.”

Brian refuses to answer. Like a cobra striking, Gus’ hand clamps over his mouth and he finds himself staring into inquisitive brown eyes as tightness blooms in his chest, his throat, his skull. He tosses his head like a shying horse as he tries to find respite but Gus shifts position with him and bends his neck at a dangerous angle, doubling the threat.

For the first time since all of this started Gus looks at Joan. He smiles at her over the top of Brian’s chair and mouths ‘how are you doing?’ He nods and grins at her double thumbs up and mouths ‘get ready’ before turning his attention back to Brian’s diminishing struggles. Her earlier apprehension makes a sudden reappearance and she lights a cigarette as she paces around the table, but as she circles she feels the nervous flutter settle and the glow of anticipation warm her cheeks instead. She wants to look the bastard in the eyes and for him to know that his time has come.

He lets go. His pale handprint flaring starkly against the dark red of Brian’s face as he sucks in air with deep sea diver sounds. “No more games, Brian. Talk to me,” he entreats. “When did your father die?”

“Al-almost five years ago.”

“OK, and you’ve felt like this about Joan for all of this time?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. And you haven’t thought to get in touch at any point and talk it through?” Brian glares at him. “Why not, Brian? What’s so different now?” Brian pouts and shifts his gaze to the wall of crates. “Could it be because you thought that you could get away with it out here? Is that it? Perhaps you think that the Police here won’t be interested, or maybe you don’t think that they’re sophisticated enough to catch you?”

He pauses and cocks his head thoughtfully. “Well, you know, maybe you’re right, but you won’t get chance to test that theory. I have to confess, you’d have been better off taking your chances with the Police. Shall I tell you why? It’s because they have to work within the law – they have rules that they have to follow. I mean, they’d have to come up with a really good story to explain any injuries sustained during questioning, but I don’t. I don’t have to answer to anybody.” Gus glances over at Joan and she almost burns her fingers as she hastily crushes her cigarette into the ashtray. “But you do, and you have a lot to answer _for_ , too, don’t you?”

He extends his hand as if asking her for a dance. “Come on over, Joan.”


	9. Chapter 9

She suddenly feels really odd – as if she’s about to go up on stage to receive a rare and coveted accolade, but in order to claim her prize she has to be naked in front of an audience made up of everyone she’s ever met, or ever will. It’s strange the things the mind focuses on at times like these – the way the sun slants in crisp, hot rectangles on the floor; the worn and splintered edges of the crates she passes, the rusty rivet on the trolley’s handle; even the sound of her own breath as each step vibrates its way up her legs and spine to lodge in the base of her skull. But she’s no stranger to apprehension, and years of fencing have taught her the alchemy of sublimating nerves into self-belief; by the time she joins Gus she’s ready.

He greets her with a nod. “Welcome.” The smile drains from his face as he turns to Brian. “Take a good look at her, Kireyev. Does it make you proud?”

She meets Brian’s dirty look with a cool stare, daring him to look away from her bruises. “She didn’t get half of what she deserves,” he snarls.

“What makes you think that you can dictate what she does or doesn’t deserve? And more importantly, what makes you think that you are entitled to exact and execute punishment?” Gus waits expectantly for his answer but Brian only clenches his jaw.

Brian looks stupid with his nose plastered in tape. He glares at her with burning hatred but she can see that he’s also scared. And so he should be. There’s so many things that she wants to do to him to pay him back for all of those slights, all of those engineered punishments from their father, his threats… his mere fucking existence in her life. Sudden anger sizzles and flares and she has a vision of herself attacking Brian, of punching and kicking and gouging at him – she can even hear his bones snapping as she stamps down on his body; she can see herself choking him with her bare hands, even feel her hair swing around her face as she watches the light leave his eyes… Her pulse thumps clunkily as her imagination gears up and she makes an effort to contain her fantasy, squaring her shoulders with deep, calming breaths as she appraises her brother’s predicament. Whatever he masquerades as out there in the big wide world, right now he’s hers to do with as she pleases. She quite literally holds all the power, and it feels phenomenal.

“I asked you a question. I expect an answer.” Gus cocks his head at the continued silence then crosses to Brian, blocking him from sight. She hears the rip of tape, and when he re-joins her she can see that he’s sealed Brian’s mouth and, despite her euphoria, she swallows hard at the memory of the other night.

“I like Joan, Brian. She strikes me as truthful. She has manners. And she’s brave. Things that you know nothing about, it seems.” Brian balls his fists and he’s staring at her as his face gets redder and redder, and she can see how hard he’s trying to conceal his fear in front of her but it doesn’t take long for his bravado to desert him, and she smiles approvingly as she begins to enjoy the spectacle of him fighting for breath.

Gus is an artist with that tape and Joan pays close attention as he works on Brian, but it’s hard for her to listen as he teases apart Brian’s warped mind, exposing his misogyny, his arrogance and entitlement. There’s times when she has to walk away in horror as his view of her unravels and, once again, she finds herself wondering if she could kill him – or at the very least, stand by as Gus does it on her behalf – but if he dies today then he’ll never suffer like she wants him to; and she really wants him to suffer...

“Your turn, Joan.” The sound of her name pulls her from her thoughts and she stares questioningly at the smiling surfie. “It’s yours if you want it,” he says, holding out the roll of tape. Is this for real? He’s offering her the chance to get hands on? To actually suffocate the bastard? A dark and determined smile dimples her long face.

“Give it to me,” she says.

Brian’s haunted expression hardens as she approaches and his mouth twists in ugly contempt. “You worthless bitch! You should’a kept your mouth shut. Should’a taken your lesson and learned from it!” He spits at her in disgust, narrowly missing her feet and she’s grateful when Gus moves behind him, lacing his fingers under his chin and yanking his head hard against the headrest. She finds it distasteful to be so close to Brian and pulls her hair into a rough braid down her back to keep it from touching him, but Gus makes easy it to follow his instructions and she sticks fresh strips of tape to his nose with a look of utter absorption, carefully filing away each little thing he tells her – as she does with every new skill she attempts.

“You don’t fucking scare me,” grunts Brian as she steps back to admire her efforts. “I’ll fucken kill you for this. I promise.” His face is a picture as Joan cackles in derision.

“Got to get out of this chair first,” she mocks. “Give me a reason why _I_ shouldn’t kill _you_ right now. A reason why I shouldn’t just stand here and watch you turn blue as you shit yourself. I mean, according to you I’ve already murdered Dad. After something like that, killing you would hardly raise a sweat, would it?” He tries to look away but she grips his surprisingly smooth chin and compels his attention. “Give me a reason to be lenient and only cane you like you did me – you know, an eye for an eye sort of thing. Explain why I shouldn’t show you what it’s like to be violated.” She can see that he’d rather die than apologise, and that’s fine by her. She stands back and measures out a length of tape, her grim smile widening as he bares his teeth.

“Just as I thought. You don’t have one single redeeming feature, do you?” she taunts. Unable to move in Gus’ grip, she plasters the tape over his mouth and then draws up the chair, settling herself down to watch.

It’s hugely surreal to be sitting here like this – as if she’s playing a part of the villain in a 007 Bond film – but it’s also hugely gratifying to be the instigator of his punishment now that, for the first time in their lives, the tables are turned. It fills her with an almost guilty excitement to know that she holds his future, his very life, in her hands, and it pleases her greatly to know that whatever happens to him afterwards, he’ll always remember this moment – and the reason for it. “How long until he passes out?” she asks Gus.

“Two, two and a half minutes perhaps.”

“How long until he dies?”

“Brain damage at about four minutes, death’s not usually long after.”

He obviously has some measure by now of how to ride this out, and he meets her cruel smile with a look of scorn. But this is Joan, not Gus, and that expected release doesn’t come, and his contempt soon tatters as roaring uncertainty takes hold. Chen has been watching her with interest during all of this and, on her nod, he lights the spirit burner and slides it beneath Brian’s balls. From his position in the wings, Gus taps a finger against his pursed lips, quietly impressed at Joan's initiative as the subject redoubles his struggles.

She wishes that she could hear Brian scream but the muffled grunts sealed inside his head will do just as well. “Hurts, don’t it?” she asks drily as his nostrils flap uselessly beneath the tape. “Just tell me if it gets too much. Oh that’s right, you can’t, can you?” She allows for a few more seconds of suffering then directs Chen to desist with a flick of her fingers. Like the touch of a lover, malicious satisfaction twines itself oh so pleasurably around her senses and she almost shudders as the seductive thrum of power purrs through her veins.

She searches his stricken face with inquisitive eyes and wonders if her father also looked like this just before the end – all bug eyed and veins bulging. “You were sloppy, Brian, and you underestimated me. I fucking own you, _bitch!_ And if I can do this once,” she indicates their surroundings and his predicament with a flick of her hand, “I can do it a hundred times.” A pleading look appears on his ever darkening face and she stands, slamming his head back with a palm to his chin as she leans over and asks coolly, “What does it feel like to die?” A gleam of terror enters his bloodshot eyes, and she feels a smile of achievement map across her face. But she wants his terror to be more than just a gleam and she gestures to Chen again, cruelly mimicking Brian’s facial contortions until his eyes roll back with a weak, final jerk of his chest and he slumps unconscious against the unforgiving confines of his chair.

Before all of this, her the hypothetical quandary was could she kill Brian if she had to; now, however, her dilemma is should she kill him because she can? To open his airway and let him live or to let him die as she threatened? It almost feels like she’s betraying herself as she reaches out and plucks at one of the rough corners.

Gus has been watching the struggle of competing emotions on Joan's face and he nods with something akin to admiration as she deftly rips off the wide strip and slaps Brian (much harder than necessary) to rouse him. “I’m impressed, Joan. Truly, I am,” he tells her.

“Really?” she asks, surprised (yet flushing faintly in pleasure) at his compliment. 

“She’s good, isn’t she?” he asks Chen, who nods with a wrinkled smile of approval and caps the burner.

To be honest, she’s not sure how she feels about this endorsement of theirs; or what it says about her. All her life she’d had the need for victory at all costs drummed into her, that in times of war the means always justified the end. To be sure, she’d expected to feel a degree of satisfaction at defeating her enemy but, god help her, she was actually enjoying it. If she wasn’t determined to make him suffer for a long, long time then she could have quite easily pushed Brian into brain damage or worse. But all of this aside, she’s proud of herself for not succumbing to the extremes of her emotions like some hysteric.

Gus moves to the table and picks up the syringe. He applies it to Brian’s forearm and, as the serum begins to take effect, he take her aside. “It’s time for you to go home now, Joan. He’s been given Sodium Pentothal – it will make him highly suggestible but it also means that he has no filters. Things are going to get messy from now on in.”

This isn’t what she wants to hear. She wants to stay until the very end. She wants to see him get everything that he’s got coming to him. “But…” her protest is stayed by his gentle hand on her shoulder.

“It’s how it is, Joan. I promise that you’ll get everything that you asked for, but you have to go.” His kind eyes crease with a smile that asks her to understand, and in them she sees regret but also compassion and she has to bite her wobbling lip as unexpected tears blur her vision. She does understand; she was permitted the privilege of observing him work but this isn’t her show and she’s in no position to dictate.

“Thank you.” She covers his hand with hers and manages a small smile of her own.

“It’s been my pleasure, Joan.”

Approaching footsteps make them turn. It’s Tsung and the two young men from earlier. But there’s no trace of the kind woman that’s been tending to her. Tiny but imperious in her tailored black palazzo trousers and ivory silk blouse, Tsung commands the deference of everybody and Joan wonders what’s going on – why is everyone bowing to a nurse? She watches with undisguised curiosity as Gus and Tsung engage briefly in private conference, admiring the way the sun glints off her sleek chignon, and the shape of her mouth – picked out in a muddy red – as she speaks in hushed tones, and then Tsung motions her over with a jerk of her head and invites her to walk with her.

Outside it’s hot and bright and loud with birds, and Tsung leads Joan to a gleaming Mercedes off-roader parked in the lee of the warehouse. She’s pleased to see her bag and the big square of foam waiting for her, and delicious, deadly tendrils of Tsung’s expensive perfume coil around her head as they settle themselves in the back seat. Surrounded by all this stylishness she suddenly feels very drab and self-conscious in her plain dress and canvass pumps, and she runs her fingers through her hair wondering what she must look like.

“How are you, Joan?”

“Physically or mentally?”

“Both,” she replies neutrally.

“Well, you can see for yourself how I’m doing physically.”

Tsung gives a brief tilt of her head in acknowledgement. “And what about this morning? How do you feel about that?”

Giddiness rises in her chest and, with a shake of her head, she blows it out in a loud sigh of relief. “I can’t thank… Uh,” she glances around, hands weaving between them as if invoking her nameless benefactor, “…Enough for it. I’m glad that he’s hurting, and I’m glad that he knows it’s because of what he did to me.” She watches Tsung carefully, knowing that her integrity is being subtly tested too, and offers a small smiles as she says, “And I’m glad that this is the end to it.” Tsung accepts her answer with a slow blink and another tilt of her head.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but who are you?”

“Call me Lau.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She gestures at the car’s interior, at Tsung’s outfit. “You’re obviously not a nurse, so who are you?”

“You should think of me as the equivalent of a regional director in an international syndicate.”

Joan looks at her askance. “Then why show up at mine and pretend to be a from a nursing agency? You could have sent proper nurses!”

Lau lets Joan's sudden peevishness slide. “I didn’t pretend anything. Before I joined the syndicate I trained as a doctor. And I came because Maggie asked me personally – as a favour for old time’s sake.”

All the tension flows out of her and she almost slumps back in the plush upholstery. For some reason she’d imagined the ‘people’ Maggie had negotiated all of this with were men. “A personal favour to Maggie? You know Maggie? How…?

“My organisation had business with hers. I can’t tell you any more, you understand – but she was their representative and we became close...” Her sharp features soften and her eyes slide away, misting with a fleeting, wistful cast before she returns her attention back to Joan, and Joan doesn’t need to know anything more about their connection.

“Well, all I can say is I’m glad she knows someone like you. Thank you.”

Lau accepts her gratitude with a quick squeeze of her fingers and a warm smile. “And you're a lucky girl to have someone who cares so much about you.” She taps the driver’s seat and, as they roll out onto the empty road, Joan can’t help but turn and look at the receding warehouse one last time.

“Lau, can I ask you something?”

“What do you want to know?”

“You said that you arranged today as a favour to Maggie.” They both smile fondly at the mention of her name.

“That’s right.”

“Does that mean then, that she owes you a favour in return?”

She regards Joan quizzically. “One day, perhaps. Who knows.”

“But it’s me that you’ve helped. It should be me that owes you...” she states. It’s a scary thing, to be indebted to an organisation like this, but it’s her responsibility. She won’t let Maggie shoulder the burden for Brian.

Impressed by both Joan's loyalty to Maggie and her courage, Lau sizes her up with a calculating look. “And you’d be prepared to take that on, would you?” Joan nods. “You work for the Australian High Commission, don’t you?” She nods again. “OK, you have a deal.”

As dusk falls, two security officers find a white man lost and wandering in the car park of Changi Airport. With no memory of the last three days, he shows all the signs of being drugged and rolled by a prostitute. It’s not long before the Police identify him as the missing Australian businessman, Brian Kireyev, and the they trace his movements back to a seedy hotel in the red-light district where, along with his suitcase and passport, they find evidence of drug-taking and some very compromising Polaroids. With the addition this information, the case is quietly closed and Brian repatriated to Adelaide with some strongly worded advice not to return.


	10. Chapter 10

Another stinking hot day over and done with. Maggie lets the front door snick shut behind her and drops her bag and keys on top of the hallway bureau; twitching her wilted linen blouse away from her sweaty body, she kicks off her court shoes and sighs at the relief as she spreads her stockinged toes on the patterned coolness of the tiled floor. As she turns towards the kitchen a searing spurt of adrenaline makes her freeze. A creature of habit, she knows for a fact that the door to her bedroom had been shut when she left for work that morning; it now stands ajar. Her eyes slide to the telephone just as a faint creak emanates from the open door. Dry mouthed, she side-steps stealthily into the lounge and her fingers curl around the silky-smooth mouldings of the brass candlestick she inherited from her grandmother. Blood pounds in her ears as she creeps across the hallway and flings the bedroom door open, candlestick raised and blue murder on her lips.

A strangled laugh of delighted relief bursts from her throat and she’s filled with giddy joy and sudden, raging desire for the young woman coiled nakedly across her bed. “Joan!” she exclaims as the candlestick slips from her grip.

“Hullo, Maggie. Welcome home.” Joan throbs with privation – twelve months of not touching your lover will do that to you – and a luscious tremor bites hard between her thighs as she devours Maggie with her eyes. Maggie reaches the bed in a few short steps but she raises her hand. “No, not yet. Sit,” she indicates the wooden Captain’s chair at the foot of the bed. Her body is crying out for Maggie's, and she can feel all of her love, all of her need and want and devotion pouring out of her in thick, heavy waves as their eyes lock across the hot room.

She feels drunk on the sight of her lover, intoxicated by the hunger that blazes in her hazel eyes, lightheaded at the thought of kissing the smile that illuminates the beauty in her handsome face. She fondles her with her gaze, memory supplying the feel of Maggie’s voluptuous body to her palms, her fingertips, her lips, and she feels the tremor bite harder as a welter of sensations race through her.

“You know, I’ve spent all day trying not to think about this moment.” She gives into a shiver as her elegant hands skim across her hot skin, and she cups her sensitive breasts and squeezes, thighs slipping past each other as she rides the wave of pleasure. “Trying not to think about you touching me like this.” Her mouth slackens as she pinches her nipples, plucking them slowly, gasping in pleasure as they flare beneath her fingertips and a succulent ache strokes its way between her sticky inner lips.

Maggie's thin shirt is moulding itself suggestively to her upper body, the outline of her bra teasing her with a tantalising promise of what lies beneath and, in her mind’s eye, Joan lays a slow, open mouthed kiss in the gleaming hollow of Maggie's tanned throat.

“Undo a button,” she demands thickly. “And another, that’s it. No, more.” Wordlessly, Maggie complies and twitches aside the white cloth as Joan's gaze fastens on her sweat sheened cleavage. “I worked really hard on not thinking at all about how wet you make me…” Her gaze flickers to Maggie's sly hands. “No, no touching yourself… Ohhhh…!”Joan’s hips roll, cunt contracting as her nipples sing beneath her rough touch. “…How wet you make me when you kiss my neck before working your way down my body with your hot mouth.”

A heady wave of animal lust pulses through Maggie as Joan's long legs part, and she rubs herself against the chair seat moaning with undisguised longing as Joan gasps open mouthed, her fingers curling like talons around the curved wooden arms, summoning every last ounce of her self-control to remain seated as her special girl stares at her so wantonly.

“All through the flight I never once imagined you sliding your fingers into my knickers. Twelve hours of not thinking about the way you rub me.” A hand slips between her thighs and time stretches out as she slowly opens herself, writhing as she maps her inner labia with teasing sweeps of slippery fingers. “Fffuck!” she groans. She’s soaking, and for a moment there’s nothing but her fingers on her clit and she soars on the sweetest sensation, sliding bonelessly down the pillows and into her hand, rubbing her slick and swollen sex as she pours herself into the depths of Maggie's burning eyes. “Because,” she pants, “If I let myself think about you touching me like this… then I’d have started thinking about this.” From beneath the pillow she draws the gleaming black dildo and offers a sultry smile as Maggie moans softly.

“But I wouldn’t let myself think about your big, fat cock.” Her thighs widen as her feet seek the corners of the mattress, and she gasps as the thick tip slides up and down her split until its slickness threatens to send her skidding over the edge. “…Or how fucking good it feels when you slam it into me. Not at all!” she pants. She can hardly stand it as the broad head slips inside and presses against her g-spot. “Because if I did then I might have lost control...” A squeaky hiss escapes from her throat and she plunges the dildo deeper, pushing against it as rockets detonate in her skull, bucking and twisting as it fills her to the limit, and she feels like she’s disintegrating. 

As she rides her pleasure, her special girl gleams in the golden nimbus of evening light framing the edges of the blind; she positively glows. Seated less than two metres from her curling toes, Maggie can only watch as Joan fucks herself. There are no words to express just how badly she’s missed her, or how much she wants her right now – it’s a primal thing that goes before and beyond mere language. She’s desperate for her. Slave to her need, she rocks her hips in time to Joan's thrusts, shoulders rolling as sizzling tongues of sensation scour their way through her body and force her heavy, fluttering breaths out along the strands of tension that stretch between them.

“Pull up your skirt for me.” As commanded, she widens her thighs and scoots forward in her seat, and Joan follows the progress of Maggie’s rising hemline with a wolfish stare, her feverish gaze caressing the familiar swell of her thighs, tickling its way up to the shadowy hint of pale underwear and she imagines Maggie rubbing her cunt across her face instead of against the chair, and her hips surge from the bed in response. “…Might have lost control of myself,” she pants hoarsely once she’s able to continue. “I tried not to think about the way you make me come either. Ohhhh…!” Her muscles clench around the dildo and, beneath her frantic fingertips, her clit tightens with the most exquisite sensation.

Oh, she feels it coming! It’s like hooks of burning delight are scoring their way through her and she slows her pace, winding them in with a steady, circular sweep of her clit. And she can hear her own cries as she grows the swirl of heavy sensation until everything else falls away and she’s cradled by stars as the first crushing wave of orgasm catches her on the outbreath, emptying her lungs as she’s dragged into the vacuum of agonising ecstasy; knees locked, long thighs trembling under the strain as she curls from the pillows and then she’s falling, cast free to be taken by the dance that spins her like a shining top from one glittering peak to the next until at last, she’s permitted to return to her body where she lies tangled, weak and twitching, the cascade of after-images sparking behind her eyelids like neon ribbons as she replenishes her lungs in long, wavering gulps. 

She can feel Maggie's gaze stroking her as she stretches the length of the bed – it’s like being brushed with hot oil – and Joan peeks at her from beneath lowered lashes as Maggie's skirt rides higher still, thighs tightening with the fresh surge of arousal as she feasts on her lover's pained excitement. Her tongue finds her lips as she imagines sucking on those hard brown nipples of hers and her breath escapes in a soft ‘ahhhh’ as a sinuous ache flickers through her swollen sex.

“Stand up,” she orders and directs Maggie to the chest of drawers with languid flick of her eyes. She lays the shining dildo aside and flows from the bed to cage Maggie against the sturdy wood with her arms. “Do you want to hear about how I forced myself to ignore thoughts of kissing you?” she asks, staring at Maggie's mouth. She feels weak.

“Tell me.”

Her thumbs find the fine skin of Maggie's inner wrists and, stroking gently, she restrains her hands and leans forward. Maggie's mouth is hot and wet and she receives her tongue with a resonant moan of adoration that harmonises with the thrumming in her core. Her body’s still ringing from her climax and Joan almost staggers as she falls into their kiss.

Joan's hot, hungry kisses are driving her wild; the smell of her, the taste of her making her tremble with a burning rush of craving that races across every inch of her skin and Maggie can barely stand it. She wants Joan in her arms. She needs Joan against her. Her clit beats heavily with every probing sweep of Joan's tongue until she can take no more and she kisses back, claiming what she can as a swirling cloak of sensation envelops her. With a shudder, Joan draws away and Maggie feels a hot hand at her throat. She has no words as Joan stares at her, and she blinks heavily as the grinding ache twists and turns between her thighs, and then hot lips are at her ear, long, thick hair tickling the swell of her breasts…

“Shall I tell you about how I forbade myself from imagining doing this to you…?” Maggie stops breathing as Joan shoves her blouse from her shoulders and yanks her bra to her waist, “Or this…” The edge of the dresser bites into her spine as Joan presses into her naked breasts.

The longed-for sensation of Joan's body against hers rips the air right out of her chest and she convulses as her tormented cunt fires out a volley of spasms. “Tell me,” she gasps hoarsely and relinquishes herself to Joan's kiss once more, hands finding their way to the slender curve of her waist, pulling her young goddess closer.

Joan digs her fingers into her short hair, soft lips tickling her ear as she rubs against her and whispers breathily, “It’s been so hard, Maggie. I gave myself such a stern talking to when I almost thought about doing this.” Maggie's eyes roll at the wet kisses sliding down her neck, and she cradles Joan's head to her breast as her skirt’s pulled up around her waist and her underwear dragged down her thighs. Her senses stutter as Joan's fingers find her clit and she sags, belly fluttering with broken gasps as her quivering body is robbed of strength. She clings to Joan, winding her arms around her neck as her special girl drags her lips back up to her ear, burying her face in Joan’s thick, glossy mane as she continues her seductive tale of self-control.

“Just think what condition I would have been in,” she pauses to gently scrape Maggie's earlobe with her teeth, “If I’d let myself imagine discovering how wet you were.” Joan works the magic spot and Maggie's mouth widens in a silent howl. “If I’d let myself think about doing something like this…” she fills Maggie with three fingers and begins to fuck her slow and hard, burning eyes fixed on her lover as she throws back her head with a drawn out ‘fuuuuuckkkk…!!’ “…Ohhh, I gave myself such a stern talking to that I didn’t _dare_ imagine fucking you until you came all over my hand.” Her open mouth latches onto Maggie's throat once more and she paints it with scalding kisses.

It’s almost too much and Maggie fights for air, her hips moving to their own frantic rhythm as she rides Joan's steady hand. How long she’s waited for this – an eternity for this bright, sweet warmth, this dark, primal release, this coiling of souls – and oh! She never wants to lose it again. Coloured lights pulse behind her eyelids as she’s battered by sensation. “Fuck me, Joan. Please… Harder…Fuck me!” she mutters urgently and drags greedy eyes down Joan's body as her pale goddess steps back and sinks to her knees.

Her legs spread themselves wide, numb fingers gripping the corners of the chest as Joan delivers a broad lick to her clit that hits her like a jolt of molten electricity. The heavy piece of furniture rocks as Joan does it again and again until she’s sobbing for release – ragged, strangled, euphoric cries – and then control truly threatens to desert her as Joan twists her hand and she rams all four fingers deep inside, the pad of her thumb rubbing so exquisitely on the underside of her clit that she thinks she might short-circuit. From beneath flickering lids she stares down at Joan as her beloved leans back on her haunches and returns her look of abandonment, her perfect breasts jostling as she pounds into her.

Oh god! Those eyes! She feels herself toppling forward as they draw her in, falling headlong into the delicate beauty of Joan's soul, and is only saved as Joan drags her fingers over her crimson lips, breaking the spell, moistening their tips before teasing her nipple for Maggie’s delight. Ohhhh! Her mouth! Her breasts! The forest of hair between her milky thighs and the delights that lie deeper still…

“Oh fuck!” she groans hoarsely. It’s winding up tight and hard, deep down in her belly. “Ohhh fuuck, Joan!” she rasps. She’s close; oh god, so close… “Ohhhh. Ohhhhh FUUUUU…!” Her words dissolve in a flurry of gasps as the feather-light switch drops and she’s slammed back into the chest, drawers rattling on their runners as she fights to stay upright until Joan pushes herself to her feet and, one hand wrapped around her cunt, the other slipping up her back as she buries her face into her into her chest, holds her – holds her as if her life depends on it whilst her orgasm rips through her, destroying her, rebuilding her only to shatter her once more.

Gravity pulls at her as she sways in Joan's arms, and she raises her mouth, seeking succour from the weakness that consumes her. Now comes the kiss of reunion; soft, languid, knowing; that gentle, liquid meeting of tongues, that wordless renewal of their bond; and as she closes her eyes she floats free of her trembling body, expanding into the dark, amniotic warmth of their mingled souls. 

Forehead to forehead, they nuzzle, sharing a long, lazy sigh of contentment as they settle into a hug of simple friendship. But it’s not long before the fact that she has a naked and very willing girl in her arms overrides any sentimentality and her hands inch their way down Joan's satiny back to her glorious behind, revelling in the way it fills them so perfectly as she squeezes with intent.

Maggie's lips tickle just below her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back a day early?”

Joan throws her head back as Maggie's words become a kiss. “What, and spoil the surprise?” she murmurs. She’s still reeling from the joy of Maggie's orgasm and it won’t take much more of this before she’s at melting point again, dissolving in a liquid rush as Maggie lays her down on the bed, as Maggie covers her with her own body, as Maggie possesses her...

“You’re a bad girl, you know that?” Damp fingers uncurl from her cunt and insinuate their way between their breasts to brush across her wrinkled nipple, and she’s rocked by a deep, convulsive shudder. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Joan protests but she looks far from wide-eyed and innocent as she gives a playful tweak, and the reaction it provokes in Maggie sends a new surge of wet heat to dampen her thighs.

“Yes, you do”

“I’m not sure that I do, my Darling. Perhaps you need to explain in more, ah, explicit terms…?” A finger hooks itself behind the waistband of her skirt and Joan takes a step back, pulling Maggie along as she takes another step towards the bed.

“I think you’re right, my little Zhannochka.” She strokes Joan's hair as she’s stripped her of her clothes, “I intend to give you the longest, most detailed explanation you’ve ever had.”

*****

Snuggled in the safety of Maggie's arms, Joan finds snippets of the conversation they’d had around what had happened with Brian coming back to her.

_“What I did… does it make me like him?”  
_

_No, not at all, my Love.”_

_“But – It gave me pleasure to hurt him…”_

_“So? A desire for revenge? – Perfectly natural. Satisfaction at his pain and humiliation? – Also perfectly natural. Oh, my Darling, it’s not as if you just hurt him for the hell of it, is it? You’ve stopped a dangerous man in his tracks.”_

_“Yeah, but I could have killed him. I wanted to.”_

_“Yes, I know. But you didn’t.”_

Who else could she have had that conversation with? Who else would accept this darkness inside her and still love her unconditionally? But Maggie has her own darkness too – Lau and Gus are testament to that – and it’s something that intrigues as much as it comforts her.

“Maggie?” she asks, weaving her fingers between Maggie's until their palms meet.

“Mmm?”

“What would you say if I told you that I wanted to change my name?”

“You don’t like Joan anymore?”

She looks up from their hands and grins. “No, you daft bugger, my last name.” Her smile falters as Maggie fails to return it.

“Are you scared that Brian will come after you? I can assure you he won’t.”

“No, it’s nothing to do with him. I, I just don’t want it anymore.”

With a considered (and congratulatory) nod, Maggie smiles warmly. “Then I say go for it.” She’s proud of Joan for wanting this divorce from the curse of Kireyev.

“Really?” She unlaces their fingers and rolls onto her side to see Maggie better.

“Yeah, why not? I mean, it’s not as if you have any loyalty to it, is it?”

“No. No, you’re right, I don’t.” She sounds very definite and Maggie gives her a squeeze.

“So, have you thought about what you’d like to be called now? How about a good strong Australian name like Smith? No, I’ve a better one – how about Jones? Joan Jones, what d‘you reckon? Oh, no, don’t! Stop it!” she squeals as Joan jabs her in the ribs with a sharp finger, and tumbles off the edge of the bed and onto the rug below. “Parslow?” she asks as Joan's face appears above her.

“How about,” says Joan hooking her swinging hair behind her ears, “Ferguson?”

Maggie's face is a picture of surprise and confusion and, not least, wonder, and Joan feels suddenly breathless as she watches the realisation dawning in her eyes.

“Ferguson?” she says at last. “You want to take _my_ name?” Her question is almost accusatory, as if Joan's asking her to believe a blatant mis-truth. “Are you asking me to marry you?” she asks more softly as Joan bites her lip. It’s something they’ve discussed, of course, but always as a theoretical abstract – a ceremony and matching jewellery doesn’t bind two people any closer, not when their promises of devotion live in everything they do for each other, to each other…

Joan's face turns solemn. “Would that be so bad?”

It’s a hell of a question and it catches her badly off guard. Out of the two of them, it’s Joan who’s been the more dismissive of the institution of marriage, and it’s also Joan who’s weathered their separations better, so understandably, it’s the last thing that she expects her to ask. Yet, at the same time, she can’t deny that the thought of Joan becoming Mrs. Margaret Ferguson has its attractions. “But you always said that – ”

“No, I know. Shhhhh…” she lowers her finger to Maggie's lips with an impish grin. “I’m teasing you.” She laughs as muted relief flows over Maggie's face and leans down, replacing her finger with her lips then, drawing back, she gazes softly into Maggie's eyes and says, “You know I don’t need to wear your ring, but I do want to wear your name – if you’ll let me?”

Joan shines with a mixture of hope and devotion and, as she gazes up at her, she feels a wobble in her bottom lip as the enormity of what she’s asking, and she knows that it’s right, she knows that whatever happens, they will be together until the very end of time. She’s almost faint with the enormity of it but reaches up with a steady hand and cups her darling girl’s cheek, almost drowning in the intensity in her eyes, and she smiles the purest smile that will ever grace her lips. “I can’t think of anything I want more, Joan.”


End file.
